Good morning, I hope your well.
Haven't talked to you in a while.
Saw your mom she looks sad I gave her a hug and we cried for a long while. It felt good.

Are you in a diffrent body and when random people smile at me or are nice to me, is that you?

When I see a stranger and i feel like i know that person  thats impossible unless it's you...
! Next time maybe hold a purple bandana then I'll known its you for sure.

I miss our long talks so much has happend over the years and I dont think anyone will fill your place.

I wanted to **** myself the  other day, held my breath underwater till it hurt

I named a scar after you not a healthy reaction I know, but the cuts deep and didnt bleed. It's tough like you.

Good morning. Hope you're doing fine.

Went to sleep because I was stupid enough with a stranger  I was afraid I wouldent be able to find you.
Then I thought maybe I'd find someone who is lost like me and they knew you and you are fine.

I'm still afraid of birds but a crow near my house gets close to me and seems kind and will make weird noises at me some times I feed it and talk to it like it's you.

Sad music makes me feel better.
Were you the same?

Mother said I cannot marry a girl would you have married me?

Good night.. talk to you again.

breeze and distant
traffic whisper,
smells like lavender,
words get scrawlier,
head full of coffee and dreams of
green.
it’s just another day, sky’s blue,
sleep’s on my mind;
all i see is concrete.
it’s noon.
how is it noon?

cocooned, like some hungry
butterfly desperate to flee
once more into the world,
i stare at the sullen clouds from
my kitchen window and
sigh with longing.

if only i were a leaf, or a
feather:
then a soft breeze could carry me
anywhere.

I woke up this morning with an incredibly painful longing for freshman year of college.  Living in the dorm with one window that overlooked the soccer field.  Having that Jessica Alba poster while still claiming to be straight except to one or two close friends and any girl I didn't know when I was drunk.  Having to ******* in the shower.  Having to sneak into classrooms or out to my car at night to hook up with boys I didn't like.  Having to take a walk just to get some alone time.  Walking down to the tiny creek that went through campus to sit and journal and feel alone on purpose.  Having an emotional breakdown on the steps of the main building at 3am after the boy I liked went home with someone else and feeling alone on accident.  Wondering if any of my new friends really liked me. Wondering if any of my old friends were really impressed by me.  Wondering if my family was really proud of me.  Wondering if I would ever use chemistry in real life.  Wondering why I was alone. Wondering why I liked being alone. Wondering if I would always be alone.

I miss the solitude of loneliness.
I miss not really knowing anyone.
I must have been dreaming of it.

hi. this past week went by like
a half forgotten dream: the time
passed too quickly,
i did very little and
i seem to remember the time i slept
and dreamt better than my
waking moments.
my mind has been scarce of
creativity and
even thought - though
i am healthy i feel
quite lifeless.

today is white and
dull, days like this
sometimes feel like static, like
the world is buffering,
like
the time has come to a halt.
i don’t usually miss the sun, but
these days are dull to
begin with.
i sit all day staring at screens and do
not much else - i’m growing quite
tired of it. but
on days such as these i feel
i barely have a
choice, so here i sit writing to you
and i am not all displeased.

at least i can say i wrote
today.
but what will all of this writing
come to? maybe
a poem, or a love
note, or a memory. or maybe
it will be something i can
look back on,
and giggle at how
silly
and sentimental i am.

I don’t understand these days,
the poetry I speak,

Or value my inner author
enough to strive for literary peaks,

And yet, here I am
writing about my writing still-

Words won and lost
with the drop of my quill,

A ballpoint pen
to be more exact,

But who in my journal
is in need of such facts?

Excerpts from the Journal of Dorian Gray
by Michael R. Burch

It was not so much dream, as error;
I lay and felt the creeping terror
of what I had become take hold . . .

The moon watched, silent, palest gold;
the picture by the mantle watched;
the clock upon the mantle talked,
in halting voice, of minute things . . .

Twelve strokes like lashes and their stings
scored anthems to my loneliness,
but I have dreamed of what is best,
and I have promised to be good . . .

Dismembered limbs in vats of wood,
foul acids, and a strangled cry!
I did not care, I watched him die . . .

Each lovely rose has thorns we miss;
they ***** our lips, should we once kiss
their mangled limbs, or think to clasp
their violent beauty. Dream, aghast,
the flower of my loveliness,
this ageless face (for who could guess?),
and I will kiss you when I rise . . .

The patterns of our lives comprise
strange portraits. Mine, I fear,
proved dear indeed . . . Adieu!
The knife’s for you.

Keywords/Tags: Oscar Wilde, portrait, Dorian Gay, journal, ageless, face, youthful, unchanging, rose, thorns, *****, vat, acid, acids, dismembered limbs, violent beauty, knife

29-03-2020  23:49

Seven hundred kilometre away from my home,
Constant depressing news each morning,
I in this solitary city of Delhi speculate for the future.
I now feel what it meant to be free,
And what freedom meant for those who were enslaved for thousand years,
And why they fought ****** wars to get it.
It was all bestowed on me and now I realize.
Staying home all day by one's own volition
Is not similar to being ordered to stay home.
But why I complain about the necessity.
When Socrates was asked, "What does a man learn in his life?"
He replied, "Complaining, Glaucon."

I don't know when all of this will subside
What and who will be spared to read this, like I used to read
All the ****** wars in history-
WWI and WWII, recessions, depression.
Now I feel the psyche of people after WWII
And why Existential Philosophy evolved from it.

Going out to buy essentials is like walking on a tight rope
only a touch here and there and you will fall in the abyss.
Yesterday, I heard the news, a man locked for two days came
running down the street naked and bit a woman to death.
Will our psyche be affected by it?
What changes these days will breed in us?
The exodus of migrants are walking back to home amid lockdown
and walking not for 20-30km but 200-600km.
The fear not only of dying with the disease but of hunger, malnutrition is looming in the remote villages.

Turn your neck whichever way,
the talks of this disease everywhere.
How did the dark ages fight the plague?
A few weeks ago, reading the plays of Shakespeare,
I read in the introduction
Theatres were closed for two years because of Black death.
How trivial it looked to me reading from the distance of five hundred years.
But now when I see the cinema, parks, roads, rails, airways, closed in my own world-- I feel the magnitude of loss.
Have we really progressed?
Will the future generations will read this the same way I did?
Yes, Distance dampens the magnitude.
It's pretty late now, perhaps I should sleep now.
This quote
of Whitman is ringing in my head--

"How all times mischoose the objects of their adulation and re-
ward,
And how the same inexorable price must still be paid for the same
great purchase."

Good Night!