Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
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
elina Jan 26
i was given a succulent in the 2nd week of uni.
it was small, green, young like me.
it was already flourishing unlike me.
i overwatered it in the beginning, too flushed,
too eager to take care of someone else.
my first month living alone.
i knocked it over 1 night.
half of its leaves came off after a careless nudge.
it was exam season.
now i stare at it, thinking.
does it embody me? the rot inside me?
half the leaves missing, a fifth growing a sick green?
is that my portrait of dorian gray?
i dare not water it. i dare not touch it.
my own portrait shut away.
it is now 1 day from semester 2.
will i survive?
Maria Monaghan May 2018
I would wonder if there be
A hidden portrait there of thee
Which bears thy sin and guilt and shame
While outwardly, thou art the same.

If this not be, then let me write
A poem to bring this all to light.
Let these immortal words then be
That true and twisted sight of thee.
a ****** unfinished poem about the first, last and only boy to ever hurt me.
apiwe Nov 2017
Strip me naked
Expose the darkness of my skin
The sin
etched into the cracks
Bring to light
All my evil deeds and atrocities
Reflected onto my skin
Show them all that I have done
The dark lines along my chest
Show them all my evil
The scars across my arms
Show them all that I shouldn't have seen
The bags underneath my eyes
Leave me bare
Show them
That by some sick twist of fate,
even though my consciousness has painted itself on my body
where no one will see
My face still remains
Pure
Unscathed
Strip me naked
and show them
all that they've never seen,
Me
Josh Jul 2017
You are made of ivory and gold
Your lips could rewrite history
From but a brief touch
You have rewritten me
Yet you remain unchanged
Porcelain, china, marble or gold
You are timeless beauty
Never to know the ages ruin
Or the terror of slowly growing old
Your hands will not wither
Nor your eyes and dreams fade
You will remain as you did
On the day you were truly made
Nigh on twenty you were made
Not born, but made, to you
And since then, to the world you have not changed
Though inside I do not know if this is true
None can penetrate your façade
Your mask of beauty and charm
You will not relinquish your weapon of a silver tongue
As though you fear the whole world means you harm
You do not know how easy you pass
With wit and boyish charm
Against all obstacles you need only smile
And all your enemies are disarmed
Another one from my self published book "ivory and gold " available on Amazon.
Tamera Pierce Dec 2016
I lived my life held down by chains
whips
and sour wails.
Then came prince one day
and saved me from myself.
He took me to a place
of glass
it must've been the stars
and it must've been the
sky.
But, it was only glass
it seems.
Not even fragile to my surprise.
I began to train.
to fight for freedom
for none one but me.
I let my demons
push on my chest.
reminding me of who I used to be.
friends, lovers, and enemies  
passed right through my hands
as I figured out my fate to follow
there in Adarlan.
Throne of Glass is my favorite book series ever and I just decided to write a short-ish poem about the first book. Sarah J. Maas is amazing.
Have you ever asked the question

How do pictures work?

They're just images of fleeting times

But worth a thousand words

I've got a box of thousands

In this box they're  safe at last

They're memories all stored away

Of my childhood and my past

What happened to those people ?

Who were captured for a second

I guess some died and some grew up

At least, that's what I reckon

Sad images and happy ones

Just echos never heard

But memories come flooding back

Each one....a thousand words

That holiday, the fishing trip

A birthday that was fun

Each just a sliver of your life

A time that is now done

Look back and you are younger

All those people still alive

That picture of you at the lake

Where you first learned how to dive

They all sit here inside the box

Not one can be discarded

For each one is a piece of me

Of how my whole life started

There's some I can't remember

Really, more than you should know

And some, well..there's that hairdo

That's just one I'll never show

You look at them and wonder

What possessed me on that day

To take a picture of that place

And now, I could'nt say

Most names are lost to memory

But the faces I recall

I might know who some are in them

But I do not know them all

I wish that as I see them

I could spend more time with them

It would be just something special

To share a moment once again

For now, the box is hidden

In a cupboard, in the back

A box of little snippents

That have made up my lifes track

You look at some and wish

You could always stay that way

But life is not a fairy tale

It isn't Dorian Gray

Best put the pictures back now

Bring them out in years to come

For their story of a thousand words

Must start with only one

Don't throw away one photo

For each one fills in a hole

They're  a picture of your being

And they all make up your soul

It's amazing how a picture

Wakes your mind, gives it a ****

Have you ever really wondered

Juist how do pictures work?
Life's a Beach Oct 2014
Beauty trapped in a diamond casket
So cold to touch yet so filled with heat
Your heart's trapped in diamond palace
I want to run
Yet I'm stuck like meat

Run, run, from the golden boy
Run, you can only be a toy
A mind of manhood
Yet, he's smooth as stone,
His heart cased in sorrow
he'll cut down to your bone

Just to see if you're as broken inside
Just to see if he can delight his eyes
You should run, run
But how can you run from

The man of wild imaginings
The man who fuels pretending
Spending of youth
Steal away truth
Feel you're free
Feel you're free
You've never been so alone

Run, run
Unreal and unnatural
Run, run
He's a ***** of the veil
Run, run
Haven't you ever wondered
How his flesh is on fire
Yet he stays the same

Run, run, from the golden boy
Run, you can only be a toy
Run, run, to him life is a ploy
A trap which he has set fire to

So run, or watch yourself burn
in ecstasy,

knowing that you want him to watch.
Erin Atkinson Oct 2014
if my hands reflect
the hurt they cause, maybe i
wouldn't hurt again.
the title is as long as the poem.

— The End —