"Play on the passion toward
a perceived possession
of a peace seldom prolonged."
That might come off
somewhat pompous
or even pretentious for that matter
but I promise
that description is rather potent
for a piece this contentious.
This piece my ensemble
I happen to be dressed in
that is contemptuous at best when worn.
Take this fabric for instance:
Torn in patches.
Collected in batches
of past skin ripped thin
from lashes driven deep
across the backs of kin
considered less than men
back then.
These gashes
were fashioned from the tragic
but not for the dramatic
habits of the judgmental.
These threads I wear are fundamental
so don't mistake this for a rental.
This pair of slacks:
Real matter of fact.
Tailored to fit exact
yet they attract peculiar stares
so much to the point
where pretending to be unaware in turn
requires more care and concern
than I'd want to discern between.
The slacks
perceived dusty and unclean
aren't as rugged and obscene
as the jeans worn in replacement.
Your distaste with
My refusal of displacement
is outrage wasted on classic design.
This hem and weft sewn
firm perfect lines and cuffs strewn
together from a time when we were known
to be grown,
worn
then thrown around;
lying there on the ground
after consistent and profuse
rips and tears from abuse
have us appear to no longer be of use.
This tie:
A noose.
A ruesome recollection
from a systematic selection
of fruit too strange
to be given a brand name
and you know the man came correct.
No half stepping.
I wear this suit whole
just to bare my soul
and that of the many
what were paid the very pennies
that grace these loafers.
No snake skin.
I break skin
when I break in these shoes
and these old soles
with these poked holes
were once worn whole to pay dues.
It was never much of a hassle
to procure these shackles.
They still cuff hands to this day
but those cuffs have linked us
to history itself;
dangling as if high up on a shelf
because our very health depended on this.
The time that I've spent in these seams
is a price I could never afford to neglect.
Every stitch was bound to a dream
that I can say I have worn with respect
so with nerve,
I describe -
- or serve, as you may:
A play on the passion toward
a perceived possession
of a peace seldom prolonged.
Fashion of the forsaken
worn be we who have never forgotten.
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
somewhat pompous
or even pretentious for that matter
but I promise
that description is rather potent
for a piece this contentious.
This piece my ensemble
I happen to be dressed in
that is contemptuous at best when worn.
Take this fabric for instance:
Torn in patches.
Collected in batches
of past skin ripped thin
from lashes driven deep
across the backs of kin
considered less than men
back then.
These gashes
were fashioned from the tragic
but not for the dramatic
habits of the judgmental.
These threads I wear are fundamental
so don't mistake this for a rental.
This pair of slacks:
Real matter of fact.
Tailored to fit exact
yet they attract peculiar stares
so much to the point
where pretending to be unaware in turn
requires more care and concern
than I'd want to discern between.
The slacks
perceived dusty and unclean
aren't as rugged and obscene
as the jeans worn in replacement.
Your distaste with
My refusal of displacement
is outrage wasted on classic design.
This hem and weft sewn
firm perfect lines and cuffs strewn
together from a time when we were known
to be grown,
worn
then thrown around;
lying there on the ground
after consistent and profuse
rips and tears from abuse
have us appear to no longer be of use.
This tie:
A noose.
A ruesome recollection
from a systematic selection
of fruit too strange
to be given a brand name
and you know the man came correct.
No half stepping.
I wear this suit whole
just to bare my soul
and that of the many
what were paid the very pennies
that grace these loafers.
No snake skin.
I break skin
when I break in these shoes
and these old soles
with these poked holes
were once worn whole to pay dues.
It was never much of a hassle
to procure these shackles.
They still cuff hands to this day
but those cuffs have linked us
to history itself;
dangling as if high up on a shelf
because our very health depended on this.
The time that I've spent in these seams
is a price I could never afford to neglect.
Every stitch was bound to a dream
that I can say I have worn with respect
so with nerve,
I describe -
- or serve, as you may:
A play on the passion toward
a perceived possession
of a peace seldom prolonged.
Fashion of the forsaken
worn be we who have never forgotten.
Written By: Devin Joseph Metz
