Micaela Kreuzwieser, C’20
Nothing
makes sense anymore.
Hands scribbled, drafted, carefully
printed, primed my thoughts into paragraphs,
sparked embers that spiraled into spasmed, impassioned
debates where words whirled round and round and round my inner contents.
My pages now damp, mildewed with age and shame, as I sit where I was squirreled
on the same shelf with relatives above and below,
held together with the barest fibers
ready to snap except for
the most loving
preservation
that keeps my tender thoughts intact.
Am I
Obsolete
Generation 