Wear Poems - Poems about Wear

In my father's garment, I wear nobility, I wear a wound of light, When dusk descends, reflection opens its secret gates, In the boxes of parallel illusions, the shadows of destiny are drawn, I detach a little from oblivion, following the warmth that keeps my steps alive. Countless springs weave their essence in battles of vitality, From his honesty, I...

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summer fun at the nude beach my fantasies within reach one day while I was there Susie had not much to wear and had racy tattoos on each cheek ...

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We Wear The Mask by Paul Laurence Dunbar After poem by Olabosoye Wemimo Olaoluwa Love of our land's labour should make us proud; The efforts, time, and energy put through... Well enough to place our pride clear as vowed. But we wear the mask of pain we don't plowed, When slavery is to labourers in blue... Love of our land's labour...

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It's easier to love, when the worst case is having a funny story to retell at bars. It makes more sense to believe, knowing truth left untold will never make it into the final edit. It's almost too easy to draw blood, when I tell myself the red is just footnotes in my forgotten tale— It's a relief to be forgetful when I...

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I wear my dress like a canvas of dreams woven from threads of the moon, as if my porcelain skin had never been touched by shadows, as if you hadn't taken me to the back of a car, a temple of secrets, as if you hadn't possessed me like an elixir flowing through a thirsty soul. I wear my...

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"As the day ends, one is closer to heaven." By Poet My neighbor is old, she can be very bold. Loving to wear lots of fancy gold, and decrepit I am told. You know age is just a thing, numbers one wants to ring. How old are you, that number may make you blue. They tell me I am a decrepit ninety-two, but I can...

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I passed the elm at eventide, Its arms were bare, its breath was wide, And there beneath the twilight sky I thought I saw a woman roam. Her gown was thin as woven mist, A memory the dark had kissed; No rustle made, no shadow cast— She moved as moonlight through the grass. Do ghosts wear gowns like we once wore, With hems...

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Naked are the bones so hallow crowned around my soul Give heed unto the wounds Ive sewn I'll mend me back to whole Though broken I'll remain to pave the path that is my sound My roots undone thine will be one hallowed by thy ground Victory unspoken I'm forever bound to never Bones bare and shown yet never known My chaos is forever...

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Home, a word that people wear like a cloak of light, uttered like a spell of peace, a place where the heart finds rest, but for me, it has always been a land of shadows and troubling echoes, never a sanctuary of safety, but a silent struggle for survival. Since I was a child, I felt the pain hidden...

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But what lies beneath the shadow of the night you wear like a heavy cloak? What do you see in the mirror when all the masks fall off and fade into nothingness? Pure white, cold light that bathes the wound, is all that remains beneath the layers of silence. Your scars, what do they truly hide, and what...

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You modulate my spine, like a clustered 7th chord— composing calm in my created chaos— every doubt becomes resonance, every pain an ivory key:exact— innovative, magic, mad. I wear your genius like a second skin— daring the dissonance to die within… you are my mask… and I found that in the score we orchestrated I wear you well....

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You say It's not my fault For being human But still You put me in a box You tell me I cannot Wear my favorite clothes Because Of men How they Will do anything But why should I Change so they don't have to? Why should I Pretend I'm not a woman? Why is what I wear Anyone's problem but mine? Simple answer: It's not. But who cares About justice? Who cares About...

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They often ask me why I don’t wear festive clothes, why I don’t paint my face, Don’t you also like to shine in the light of a clear morning? Oh, if only I could tell them that every act of beautification feels like just a veil over a wound, As if I were hanging curtains over broken windows,...

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You wear sadness like pearls, carefully strung between sighs, in a silent elegance that surrounds your neck, as if pain were something to be worn with pride. They marvel at your resilience, viewing it as a spectacle, yet they never question why suffering must be your personal signature. They whisper about your grace, admiring your courage, but isn't grace just another name...

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