depicted on her arm hieroglyphs and pictorial charm tattoo sleeve deep dive into an ocean of everything she finds so hard to relate left hanging in the air but don't question it like the elephant in the room move right on stranger it's not speaking to you there is a cult of believers a religion based on trust if you need to ask the reason non-believer you are lost in a garden that's a secret that's already cast you out you'll never know her freedom it's a dish you just can't taste
he conveyed an exterior tough as a nut layered as an onion sharp as a knife tattooed like a gallery hidden emotion displayed across the canvas of a body scarred by conflict battered by life he walked defensively decisively a single minded direction where to go what to do pushing through crowds politely though no one dared challenge him
Tattoos are scars we choose to keep-- words we want to carry, memories we fear losing; ink and needle are the self-inflicted stinging: the pain we choose to feel. art on our bodies-- out of our minds-- something real.
I have my father's name tattooed on my wrist not because I forgive him, but because I have forgiven myself and I choose to carry that with me.
The skin a canvas to life Stretchers pulling us in every direction Crossing the river into the lands of time Our craft steered by a soul reader
A needle crosses through my miasma Pierced our skin emits a homely light The way becomes clear Peacefulness, coolness and evanity comes out of pain
An echo of our selves now revealed Memorials nailed down Guardians now protecting A morphing eulogy
Each mark an initiation A symbol of me in a closed world My enamoured armour Beliefs for all to see
Traditional worries over tattoo and associations have changed. Why buy a Monet and hang it on a wall when you can carry it with you all day long? Or place a flower at the grave side when you can take the grave with you.
I am gazing at a shining portrait as my desire is announced by distant bell chimes. I merge with the paint and feel absorbed into a different timeline.
In the painting, the wind carries a scent of a familiar tree assorted with the melody of its leaves. It all brings back the memory of a song that I love, that reminds me of a woman I met in a vision from a dream yet I don't know the language it is made of, nor I can sing it for I am dyslexic in the ear.
This is an illusion, I see it. Still, I deem it to be real, similar to a scene that I keep reliving as I wander the mystical golden desert, I wonder is fulfillment an insult or a compliment if attained outside the ordinary strains of sensual accomplishments? Disconcerted by previous arrangements i think it through to realize this is an illusion is just a tattoo .