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So i had to read a couple of books for school, and one was The Picture of Dorian Grey. I have to write 100 lines of poetry in the character's viewpoint. It can be split between as many peoms as i want, but has to be 100 lines total. It can be in free-verse.
I wrote this today and I think it's ok. However, i'm horrible at checking for errors and MC Word can only do so much. So i need help checking it for errors.
If you've read dorian grey then please help or give some advice/idea/criticism/etc.
(This is in the mind of Dorain Grey, just so you know)
What am I?
I walk among man,
but there is no string that binds us together.
My skin is pale, soft, luscious to the touch,
the very distortion of the wretchedness within.
It covers me,
like a shroud of security.
I once thought of happiness.
Now I seek forbidden pleasures,
falling to the cries of temptation.
I once thought beauty was my soul,
or rather my soul was beautiful.
But what is beauty,
a prize, a gift?
Or is it a prison?
For beauty is but a mirror to the soul,
yet my reflection stands still.
Frozen in time,
a constant state of pristine youth
as my soul forever grows wicked.
Deception is beauty’s true aim.
They are the twin fates of which we all share.
One grasps your soul with its black fingers and squeezes it of purity,
while the other molds your body to it’s grim pleasures.
Eventually we each yield to their power.
For they do their deeds on us all,
but they have played the worst trick upon me.
My soul lies upon the molten floor of hell,
and my body taunts the angels of heaven.
Yet to neither I belong,
and to both I am driven.
I seek love,
yet I find loneliness.
I seek pleasure,
and in turn am rewarded with suffering.
How long must I live this life?
How long must this lie torment my being?
I pray for peace,
for a moment in which I can find harmony with the world.
Nevertheless I awake to the blackness of reality.
Day upon day the world around me lives on.
I watch as the bluebirds sing to the bees,
which in turn taste the sweetness of the lavender lilies.
I see children playing with their golden marbles under the warm sun,
and I watch as the squirrels gather nuts for the long winter ahead.
And still I feel no comfort with the passing of spring,
I feel no warmth from the summer sun.
Fall is a blur of meaningless color,
And winter’s white snow is but a false purity.
As the years go by,
children become adults,
the harsh world sucking the redness from their lips,
and the fingers of death slide across their faces.
Flowers wilt and fade,
consumed by the icy teeth of winter.
Bees cease to buzz,
for the small will always be eclipsed by the mighty.
Birds will fall from the sky,
and land upon table of the hunter.
However, I will remain.
My body will keep it’s color,
my skin will be forever soft,
and my lips forever luscious.
My soul will only continue to fade into blackness,
it’s deepest passions growing darker and more grave,
and my dreams will be my vice.
For all is as it has been,
nothing can change the fate of life.
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My husband suggested it was the Bluebird of Happiness.
