You wore your tattoos
Just like your heart
On your sleeves of wonderful art
Each tells a story, a reason
Each admired and seen
But it was your heart
That wanted to be seen, heard
It was your heart that had the reasons
Of why you were art itself
Your skin adored
But it was the heart that yearned
A canvas for black ink, worn proudly
An uncolored heart, worn openly
You loved the pain of the needle
But you feared the pain of your vessel
Despite it all
You wore your heart on your sleeve
Aching to be filled, colored
To tell its story, its love
Your most beautiful tattoo
Is the empty outline
Of where your love should be

We met in coincidences—
Once in angst staring at the moon
Twice in silence glaring at the sun
Thrice under colored skies pretending not to watch.

Each time,
the universe held its breath.
Each time,
we let go too soon.

There were years between our names.
Other hands. Other homes.
Hearts that tried to forget
what never really left.

But I’ve learned—
what isn’t meant for you
will fight to leave.
And what is
will find its way back,
no map,
no warning,
just a pull.

So even if we part again,
even if time forgets our faces—
I’ll know:

'You are the return.
You are the thing that stays.'
Indefinitely


Erennwrites

It's a shame really.... how much paper I've wasted on you.
how many time's I've sat in my room in the late hours of the night replaying everything you did to me.... everything we did to each other.
how I bleed on paper, pouring out the deepest corners of my soul to the only thing that will listen.
still it is a shame how I continue to waste words, paper and ink on you.... how I manifest great sentences to describe how you hurt me.
you don't deserve them, you truly don't deserve anything I've given you, but even after your gone I still manage to sacrifice pieces of myself for you.
I'll sit and waste hour's on something that's supposed to be beautiful.... but you made painful.  
I guess in a way, I hold a pen like you never held me....

Her skin is wrapped in Henna,
Beautiful brown ink,
Sketches cover her thighs.

Little golden vines wrap around her fingers,
Intertwined with the bare white of mine,
She's a work of art, such a beautiful painting,
I trace each line of the brush.

Spots of ink adorn my hands.
I hope my writing crosses the lands.
With joy and tears following its path,
I hope it inspires someone’s inner wrath.
Today, I’ll write like lightning struck me.
Tomorrow, they’ll read what I wrote and see
The truth lies on ink-filled pages,
Written by these unknown sages.
Together, the ink, it will congeal,
Making truth and making life real.

Every splash of ink,
Every drag of this pen.

Is another gift in the face of common man,
An honor that is art to the human soul.

For if not for this music,
Spirits would grow old, crumbling in the cold.

The pen –
is an extension of my body, held by my hand, as it
beats with my heartbeat; it's my very breath between
words, the intentions of my structuring, the brush to
my thoughts, the paint of my imagination.

The pen –
is the mic to my voice, the scope of my eyes, the chorus
to my soul, the bass to my heart, the shadow of my skin,
painted by the night, and why my pen chooses to be black!

It is bold, it is wild, it is persuasive, it manipulates words
to invoke change, it is controversial, it is understood by
few, yet it speaks to all.

The pen is an extension of my body –  for we are One!