"apparel" poems
Where do I start
How should i begin,
I guess i will just write
until the very end,
I could start with my name
and where i am from,
Yes, I will start with that
and then more will come,
My name is Dylan
and I was born in North Carolina,
I am nineteen years old
but I feel even older,
I look much younger or so I am told
My days are long and filled with joy
I have a daughter
No, not a boy
I work, go to school, and am a father
I own my own business
As God as my witness
I have a beautiful companion
who is full of life
She is my joy
No, not a boy
My two girls are my life
one is my daughter
The other my future wife
My Passion is Business
My title is Entrepreneur
I love what i do
Which is more than most
If you love your work
Than you too can boast
My business is a brand
Perception Apparel is the name
I create unique Clothes
And nothing is quite the same
Check me out,
The website is the name!
Among my hobbies sports are fairly high
Basketball is my favorite
Still not sure why
Other interests may include:
Food, movies, and long walks on the beach
This is begining to sound like a date
I can't think of anything else to say
My life in 300 words
It is sort of sad in a way
My life in one paragraph
Yet i have nothing left to say?
Well It seems I have begun to rant
I hope now you may know me
There is not much to see
For this is all there is to me
In essence of time
let's bring this to a close
And if you are lost, this was my Prose.
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 9:36 AM UTC
Well, she looks like a witch,
Her pointed nose does twitch.
As she frowns upon the grocery list,
Then scrunches in a timely twist.
Bidding her straw broom,
Which she doth groom.
Hovers away into the gloom,
Over a pond she doth loom.
To frogs, rats, snakes and slime,
Quoth she, "All in good time!!"
Soon they'll be no room,
For the impending doom.
Her cauldron happily hissing,
As she adds to the seething,
Her black cat begins meowing,
After the rats, he begins running.
Slowly cooling the putrid portion,
She applies the lovely lotion.
The moles, warts and silver hair,
Disappear into thin air.
Her velvet apparel now lace,
Not a blemish does one trace.
Fondling her silky Siamese,
She heads home with ease.
To the little candy castle,
Awaiting Hansel and Gretel.
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 10:21 AM UTC
Earlier today, painting was the activity that we had planned
I have a support teacher who would always lend a hand
She had left the class to get the paint all mixed
While I stayed behind to get the toys and props all fixed
She came back and bore bowls of red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.
Lunchtime I visited a store and neatly displayed on low shelves
Arranged so immaculately as if magically done by elves
Were cases upon cases stitched together with only zips
They almost instantly bent a smile to my lips
Their colours shone brilliant red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.
Passed by a shop selling accessories and apparel
Merchandise dangled on wall hooks and some in a jumble
On the adjacent wall something caught my eye
Carried all the neat little tote bags one could ever buy
One peeking from a corner was red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.
Walked by a building, so modern-looking and new
Down on one side almost obscured from view
Were these horizontal rows of dancing neon lights
Stopped for a minute just to soak in the sights
Then I realised that they flickered red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.
Waited for the bus to get home at my usual bus stop
Whilst waiting, I shifted and from my bag something did drop
Bent over and picked my coin pouch that had fallen out
Looked up only to see another commuter lingering about
On his pack was a sticker which boasted red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.
Bus was packed, found a seat in the back row
Sat myself down, I peered briefly out the window
Engine under me, I scanned around to those who were seated
Observed the floor beneath my shoes as it vibrated
My pair of Adidas, oh my, they're red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.
Got home, put my bag down and sank into the sofa
Switched on the telly, on was the Food Network's "Barefoot Contessa"
Surfed through the channels, caught a real estate commercial
Promoting prime land in a country not anywhere regional
Splashed on the screen, a flag - red, white and blue
Made me think of...well, made me think of you.
End of the day, it is best that I hit the sack
Allow some rest for my poor aggravated back
But not till I complete the words you're currently reading
I'm thinking, dreaming and furiously typing
How do I end this? Hmm...red, white and blue?
I'm thinking and dreaming...and wishing I'm with you.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 9:08 PM UTC
Now let us pray.
May hellfire rain down
on us today, on all those who
offered pay in
full metal change to watch
the life sized lights explode
& wicked witches
hanging by the throat
from a tenth floor window
it was all so cool.
so cool.
demon induced
dementia cemented in
an underground parking garage
sleepover
sleepless
starry eyed orphan
**** princess-
apparel section
regressing to an
oral fixation & a
need to keep the
fingers busy.
pink **** carpet
heart shaped atrocity
rotten thing.
you ain't the boss of me
paleface
scarab angel
seraph snake
made up cheap
heart tarnished
purely
black comedy
legs like a limousine
keeping company with
the holy cross
dressers on the
local drug scene.
oh how special.
yesterday
I fed my
edificial fetish
& I could not
stop thinking.
these high
arched ceilings.
could not contain
my feelings,
if they tried.
drive by advertisements
remind me there's
not much
to be excited about.
Jun 13, 2015
Jun 13, 2015 at 6:23 AM UTC
LOVE, on wood,
Is raised
Perpendicular
Into the grey sky.
Below
The intense agony
And silent victim
Stand the military
Gambling
For his apparel.
Mary and Mary Magdalene lament...
Above,
Utters of despair, forgiveness...
Then death.
Imperceptible
To the organic eye,
His Spirit ascends into the opening
Sky;
And there in the empyrean
He bides his time
For the Love---
Of ALL mankind.
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 11:37 AM UTC
I am fighting.
It is a clash between disdain and isolation.
Why love doesn't find me, instead of broken hearts.
I am demented.
What is love?
I always think it is a pure endearment,
But in the end i didn't deserve it.
I prayed to God,
Why love doesn't nominate my name,
And why love is so purblind.
I am wasting my time.
The emptiness haunts me again and again
I get lonely when i looking to the future.
I get lonely when i am in a crowd.
I always seem so happy,
With not care in the world.
They only know my veil.
Hey! ****** creature,
Why you separates me from my wisdom.
I was tried,
I was lost,
No one listened,
No one understood.
How can i disappear to make people understand?
Ah!
Who will sing a song,
Like a lullaby.
Here comes the call,
Now i hide this pain too,
And making sure no one sees my hurt.
I am trying to envelope the scar's and,
Buried deep in my heart.
Hoping one day i can smile.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
For the first time on campus, Sisters on the Runway will strut and pose for domestic violence awareness.
Sisters on the Runway will be hosting its first annual fashion show from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. tonight in the Business Building. All proceeds will be donated to the Centre County Women's Resource Center, Layla Taremi president of the organization, said.
Sisters on the Runway is a national student-run organization that raises awareness about women and children who reside in domestic violence shelters. There are over five chapters throughout the nation, each supporting the same cause to local shelters. It was founded in 2009 and has grown since then, Taremi (sophomore-marketing) said.
Aside from the fashion show, which is the biggest fundraising event that the organization hosts, Sisters on the Runway is also responsible for other events. The organization hosts a chalking event where they write facts about domestic violence on sidewalks using chalk. This is a way for them to raise domestic violence awareness, Taremi said. It also hosts a walk where all participants walk a mile in heels for awareness.
The show will consist of eleven female models and three male models, Edie Alexander, the event planner, said.
Alexander said the show is expected to showcase clothing from Connections, Dwellings, Diamonds and Lace Bridal and Harper's, who are also their sponsors. Looks Hair Salon will be responsible for hair and makeup for the models in show, Taremi said.
"There is no theme for the show,” Taremi said. “It will be a wide spectrum of clothing."
The male models are expected to walk the runway showcasing suits and tuxedos, Taremi said. Originally the show was not going to include male models. It wasn't until the owners of Harper's decided to contribute to the show by donating some men's apparel for the fashion show.
All the models participating have been building up their confidence for the runway, Alexander (sophomore-recreation park and tourism management) said.
"I'm excited for our first annual fashion show, I hope this brings more awareness to the Penn State community," Vice President Lauren Shearer (sophomore-supply chain management) said.
The organization’s goal is to get a lot of people involved through different events to help raise awareness of domestic violence, Shearer said.
"We’re trying to push people to come, not just Penn State students, because it's not an issue that doesn't only affects college students,” Alexander said. “It affects everyone as well."Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,
But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm:
Besides I can tell where I am use’d well,
Such usage in heaven will never do well.
But if at the Church they would give us some Ale.
And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale:
We’d sing and we’d pray all the live-long day:
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.
Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing.
And we’d be as happy as birds in the spring:
And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church
Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch
And God like a father rejoicing to see.
His children as pleasant and happy as he:
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel
But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.
3k
They squirm inside their clothes
tweed, chiffon tiered skirts, and bows
of their grandmothers’ sepia, halcyon days
with lumberjack flannel and Kerouac quotes,
but it’s more a matter of age than size,
these charging, listless, candid creatures
with hairstyles that can only be described
as gravity readily defied and self-cut,
frequently dyed to shades that swing
between black coffee and New York poetry
deep imagism and social realism against the backdrop
of American Apparel ads on scratched up Macs.
They slouch up and down trafficked Newbury,
dropping names like Morrissey and Bukowski
pausing now and then to pick up on the ennui
of twenty-three, and how they will one day live la vie
Dharhimian, running on American Spirits,
James Dean, Truffaut chic,
a monthly check from their parents,
an apathetic sneer at holding anything too dearly
and how they hate that word—hip-ster.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
Who is it that comes from Edom, coming from Bozrah, his garments stained in crimson? Who is this, in glorious apparel, marching in the greatness of his strength? "It is I , who announce that right has won the day, it is I," says the Lord, "for I am mighty to save."
-Isaiah, 63:1.
Look to Syria, Egypt, Lebanon, Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Somalia, all the world around you, and I. Time to get off your *** and do some saving. No disrespect intended, Lord.
r
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
Who goes amid the green wood
With springtide all adorning her?
Who goes amid the merry green wood
To make it merrier?
Who passes in the sunlight
By ways that know the light footfall?
Who passes in the sweet sunlight
With mien so virginal?
The ways of all the woodland
Gleam with a soft and golden fire -- -
For whom does all the sunny woodland
Carry so brave attire?
O, it is for my true love
The woods their rich apparel wear -- -
O, it is for my own true love,
That is so young and fair.
2.5k
These feet have been around
Plodded in puddles
Clogged and clicked the ground
To you they're safe
To me you're sound
To run round to you
Oh crave I could now
Golden hair
Cartwheel flair
Peppermint breath
Fly in fresh air
Not once whistled
Not even splintered despair
Since good girl
Oh she's been there
Since Queen girl
Oh she's proved rare
Cornish Piskie,
Frisk me
Arrest me
Glisten glitter
Blind my gaze
Can't resist to see
Split open apparel
Dizzy me as does Jimi
Screeching and peaking in a purple haze
Precious stone
Clustered diamond
Element formed in golden flame
Gotta shade my eyes to save
Sight to see, pupils in prime
Condition to view you ripe and shine
Voluptuous mahogany, statue in mind
Polished marble, Amazon ripe
Almond smoke, velvet scent
Dusk swept sun, satin night
Will always be, your favourite gent
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC
Perfect body proportions
Totally magazine hot.
Two percent body fat.
Bone structure of a god.
An hour workout daily
Jogging or the gym.
Specimen of health
Neither fat nor slim.
A high-dollar hairstyle
Nothing out of place.
The finest of products
Moisturizing the face.
Clothes from the proper
Stores with the right names.
Never take a chance on
Discount shopping games.
And, don’t forget the shoes
They have to be just right.
One set of shoes for daytime
And another for the night.
Not just any socks, either.
They must be picked with care.
You can’t be caught with
The wrong socks out somewhere.
Once the apparel is suitable
The grooming done just right
It’s quite all right to be seen
In public, day and night.
Otherwise the right people
Might trigger your worst fears
By thinking you were shopping
At Walmart, Kmart and Sears.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 4:48 AM UTC
Where buses still elapse with Time
Down straight Dame Street
The Trees are satellites that allow Children to look up
and let the pavement breath.
Earthen Columns that gate the Boombox Clubhouse tint
Flanked by the Yeoman Guards of Hollister
but forget to pay the same compliment
outside of American Apparel
Where Teenagers dream out fantasies
of lamp-lit, flash-shot
worship-worthy objectification
in a converted loft in the real New York
Their headphones spring streams of bright optimism
as they cradle knitted knee-high socks.
Take the curve round Trinity College
and laugh past the rumours
that it may soon float on Dow Jones
and dodge past the charity advertisers
Strutting over campbags of sleeping homeless
to Lemon Cafe for an overpriced Mocha
Which regardless deflates the sheen-covered hollowness
of green-comfy Starbucks
and learn the subtleties of speaking lightly
to dark-jaceketed Blonde girls
Whose eyes seem to sparkle "Yes, we have sipped
on Veuve Clicquot at reserved tables on Graduation nights
at Cafe En Seine"
-"Where Oscar Wilde might have drank"
- "..Had he been alive."
Then speculate on the best Festivals and whose
Films and Books are over-hyped and under-appreciated
and the after-College Gossip on who broke-up or stayed together
or who hooked up even though they shouldn't have
or regretted it
and who's doing a paid internship and who's moving abroad
and afterwards charmingly tease their superficial attitudes
as meanwhile they secretly take photos
to upload on Instagram
and later you'll fake-admonish them
for how they did this behind your back
while you were staring into the lake
in St. Stephen's Green.
When the moon no longer glazed the water
and had receded its contrast to the farthest grass
and you decide to take the last bus home.
Throughout
Caution Glints The Vowels
and Brands them too.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 10:11 AM UTC
A garb - the physique
An apparel antique
A marvel mystique
Yet each unique
The body a fabric
For the soul beatific
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
Oh!
How beauty lies in simplicity
For even without linen
Bracelets or tingling
Ankle chain
You still purchase
a fair beauty
An aura of fine apparel
scenting out like olive oil...
Your mind
Adorn with pure ecstasy
Your inner beauty
Radiates your charm
Your smile
Compliment it all...
Mon cherie
J' a tamie beaucoup
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 9:22 AM UTC
"Hello there," said I to the stranger beside,
"I'm Cari, and this is my boyfriend."
The stranger looked past, with some side-eye and sass,
And said, "You must be overjoyed, then."
I tilted my head to the side then and said,
"I am, we've decided to marry!"
The stranger just frowned and then said, his voice down,
"I was being sarcastic, he's scary."
I frowned then, in turn, and my boyfriend, face stern,
Said, "C'mon, babe," in dirtied apparel.
With his crossbow in hand he led me through the land,
Snuffing zombies and bandits-- oh, Daryl.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written embassage
To witness duty, not to show my wit—
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it;
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts apparel on my tattered loving
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect.
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
2.2k
Though her beauty's compelling
do not think of her beauty,
do not think of her shape,
do not think of her smiles.
For they are all deception.
Do not be lust at her gentle staring,
do not be lust in her seductive apparel,
do not be enspelled in her flatterings,
for they are all deception.
Never think of her movement,
never think of her whispers,
never imagine the aura of her presence
For they are all Deception.
Never think of her complexion so bright,
gaze not into her charming eyes
lest you be ensnared,
do not lust after her **** lips,
for they are all Deception.
Do not think of her at all!
do not think of her!
Do not love her
believe not in her fake feelings,
she cannever be yours
yes she cannever be yours.
For to another she belongs
she cannever be your.
Do not think of her at all!
Do not think of her.
for she cannever be yours!
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
The man decked in blue
sits quite content
on a sofa
and observes wealthy offspring
waltz in flashing their brilliant teeth
glossed with potent peppermint.
These teens
don't know love,
lust is all it is.
While the Jazz bops away,
more whisky is poured
and they zip out to get jammy.
The man, mid-twenties,
kind of blue, dapper apparel,
has one on the rocks.
Sees them
walk in most evenings,
cute blondes with flawless skin,
guys in suits, bow ties, the works,
gaze into each other's pupils.
There are regulars,
Robert, the chap from Yale,
Quentin, sly guy at Harvard
and Carly, still at school the man believes,
who's coquettish, fresh,
these two want to have her
but she's astute,
knows just what she wants.
They're all after her in fact.
Every male in the room
turns their head,
can't blame them,
she's like Candyfloss,
all the men want a taste
but there's not enough for everyone
and they don't look like the sharing kind.
The man in blue
just grins to himself
thinking how grand it is
that he's single, sensible, secure.
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 10:27 AM UTC
The next time you want to ban
brown skin from your white land ,
consider the crimson floods spilt
on burnt clay from red flesh.
You want brownfolk in this country
like we wanted pox in our quilts.
As our history is ripped to tattered patches
and replaced by a white silken sheet.
But this is the land of the free
and this is the home of the brave.
And when I say brave
I don't mean that caricature
drawn on the front of a baseball jersey,
with buck teeth,
a bird feather
and a tomahawk motion.
I mean the brave souls
that took a last stand
against the Custers
and the Mayflowers
and colonial white powers.
I mean the Sitting Bulls and Geronimos
who’s histories are rewritten
in Old Spaghetti Westerns.
Where John Wayne is always the hero,
and our people aren’t even cast
to play our own roles.
Hollywood won't stoop to blackface
but red face is PC.
Perfect Aryan models advertise American Apparel,
one authentic-looking headdress
and fifty-dollar native design
crop top tank tops
are like spoils to the victor.
It's enough to make one sick.
This is America,
where they steal your culture
and sell it back to you
at ten times the price.
Those faux hide moccasins,
**** on old tradition,
turn centuries old struggle
into a fashion faux-pas.
I once had a conversation with a girl
whose skin was made of privilege.
She said, ”I thought Native Americans
wanted to live on reservations..?”
Let that resonate. Repeat.
as if we were getting a room
at the Four Seasons.
It was called the trail of tears
not the trail of whimsical wonder.
But in this white washed world
invasion is called settling
genocide is industry
and poverty is tax-free.
Our heritage is endangered,
our veins are booze-diluted
but at least we have those scholarships
which, I suppose, we’ll use
to cram our brains
with a history
that never belonged to us.
Perhaps, all of those centuries ago,
we should have thought to build a wall,
you know, to keep the immigrants out.
We could have stood at the border
with picket signs of self-deluded righteousness
lungs filled with hate
for a different colored human
shouting, "Go home, Alien,
your dreams are illegal here!"
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 9:42 AM UTC
fat monkey's with beady little eyes
wander back and forth along the kitchens edges
licking their lips and hungrily kneading their hands
while i tend the pots and kettle
wearing my best low rent apparel
and listening to only the finest of garage grunge
its miami gardens in springtime
and all the pretty people are strutting the boardwalk
looking for backwater bargains at cheap motels
she is here with me in her barley there bikini
fashionably perfect in all the politically correct ways
its perpetual summer in miami gardens
all the sour hearts on the phone making travel arrangements
the snowbunnys are out in force this year
can't step one foot to a western wind with treading on some ugly mug
but they are oh so friendly
don't you want to cuddle up with some furry little monster
its wintertime in miami gardens
she strips down to her birthday suit
and the monkeys start getting itchy in
their mohair leisure suits
its hard to get comfortable in your own skin
in the land of picture perfect bodies on the sand
so lets all sit down to eat
share a meal and a mile of road
maybe we can find enough in common to keep out the cold
thinking about miami gardens in spring
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
You are the unbearable sort of thing that I wouldn’t want to wear on my feet, even with boots laced up to the knees, because wearing you would force me to cover my polka-dotted toes,
And anyone who would want to compromise my innocence like that is horribly patterned and dull,
Like the lone argyle sock with the tag still attached that I hate, gathering dust on that shelf in the rain, where the rest of my unwelcome thoughts have found place
The ones that can’t cover my insecurities
Or don’t flatter my figure at all
There’s an obvious scab on my ankle that won’t heal
Embarrassing, really
It came from my unwavering faith in open-toed stilettos
You saw it just the other day
And I blushed as I tried to pull my pant leg over the sore, but you knew (I think)
Oh, the puzzling urge I have to be made over by the brains of your outfits!
So I can open a closet of conversation topics that would suit both of us just fine
I think
I have shed 18 years of ideas in the past two weeks
I starved myself until I could fit into the apparel of your approval
Which I claw through my closets but still cannot find
But I know that somewhere in my brain beneath an empty toilet paper roll or stuck on a dead branch of ideas is a match to your unbearable pattern-
Perhaps if I’d kept my opinions more alphabetized, I would’ve found it sooner
Blast, my scattered brain that can’t seem to produce any fashion but faux pas for you
Logic and emotion were never meant to mix like this- trust me, I know well
Give me a summer to rearrange myself, hmm?
Or will I have no use of you then…
If only I’d started to realize sooner
We’d be peeling oranges and discussing the oldest styles of thought, you and I
Beneath an umbrella in the rain
You wouldn’t be able to see that odd scab on my ankle
Because I would have the other lone argyle sock with the tag still attached that I hate-
I feel that perhaps
you are only unbearable because I wish you complimented me better, that perhaps the reason I’m starving myself of all reason is because I’d like nothing more than to openly say
that I hate you, my lone, little argyle sock
but that is only
because right now, I could never possibly hope to wear you
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC