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XPY 6d
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--
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.
I trust my deep scars inside/outside me,
cause they stayed for long , even others had just left
Atleast scars that you didn't want to get tattoed , teaches great lesson..
And know that, scars on you, proves that you are stronger than yesterday..
igc Jul 22
Thereโ€™s something about the bleeding of
a pen through paper and on to
the other side
It gives me
a sense of permanency
Trying hard to stay put
it bleeds for its home

A mother hoping so much
to hold on. Leaves a
mark on their children
A tattoo of trauma
Leaves a mark on your

A love so sweet itโ€™s tattoo
permanent mark my skin
with your presence on my
shoulder; permanent
A hope so sweet, I hope itโ€™s

Bleed through my skin, leave a
splotch like pen to a paper
marking home reminding
you of its permanence
kevin wright May 16
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.
Harley Hucof Apr 29
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 .

Words Of Harfouchism
Robert Rittel Apr 21
Preserved tattoos mummified,
status quo on skin applied.
Scarifications by irritating the wound,
raised scar as status claimed.
Rites of passage and its devotion of,
marks of fertility and pledge of love.
Memorial, sentimental, artistic sculptor,
identification in that refined culture.
Crosses for Christians,
numbers for prisoners .
Tattoos for exported slaves,
recognized beyond the graves.
Sacred marker for storing oneโ€™s taboos,
live to live confessions as muse.
Medicinal and therapeutic purpose,
from Deir el-Bahari site resurface.
Deviant stigmata,
identification image sonata.
Dream doors of feeling soul,
the story in the story as whole.
Skill, beauty and rang,
in harmony they sang.
Making beliefs the reality,
images of truth guarantee.
Flo Apr 4
The pursuit of individuality
Covered skin, a form of art
Special meaning hidden
Behind a colourful facade
people be saying:

โ€œDefacing your temple of Lord.โ€
โ€œVandalizing your skin.โ€
โ€œMarking up your body.โ€
โ€œA mistake youโ€™ll come to regret.โ€
โ€œIt's ugly, itโ€™s stupid, it makes no sense.โ€

God gave me a mind, filled with light and color and ideas and beauty. And he gave me a body, plain and simple like a blank canvas asking to be colorized.
I stain my skin with ink because I think it is beautiful.
My body is covered with marks from a needle, not a knife. This is the way I choose to feel, think and share with the world. You ought to be glad that my way is not another.
And how could I regret painting my skin in a way that brings me such happiness?
You look at these lines and squiggles and all you see is dirt. Maybe to you, there is no rhyme or reason to the pictures that I so carefully choose, but every mark has its story. Maybe if youโ€™d ask, Iโ€™d share them with you?
I color my flesh.
Have fun, have a voice,
Express my thoughts without using words.
A permanent reminder of what I stand for,
A protest of the things I do not.
This is my body and I do as I please.
Could it be you who is wrong
For reprimanding me from wanting the world to see
That I am not perfect,
But in imperfection, beauty can still be found?
Could it be you who needs to open your mind
And your heart to new ideas
So although you all treat my tattoos to be taboo
If I wish to paint my skin, that is what I will do.
Maria Etre Mar 10
I felt the sting of adulthood
tattoo my skin
with colors
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