The tattooist’s lines
Soften
Turn to blue
                          Faiths have
An anchor
And forget me knot
                          Marks time
Within a beachfront kiosk
                               Mattress in rear
Note on shutters
                         Saying  
                         Back in 15 minutes

Older than her waist size
Younger than the priced
Sunday Sport tabloid
Talking of *******
And WW2 bomber on the moon
                          That she’d folded
       As though sleeves rolled up

Her name imprinted
Each stick of rock
                       On the seafront
When anyone talked of Faith
                              Pink words
                                    Always turned blue

My Nana always said I had good skin.
Fair skin,
littered with freckles ("Angel Kisses")
and soft with baby fat I've yet to grow out of.

I have my Mother's hair,
soft and red like blood spilt.
Strangers always gushed about how pretty it was.

Age has not painted me in a lovely light.

I wobble on tip-toes,
trying to reach the top shelf.
My fingers are stained with ink
                                          with paint
                                          with graphite
                                          with charcoal-

My nails are broken and soft.

This skin binds me to a history
I can't help but hate.
The mourning, the grief
The anger, the ire;
The desperate pleas to go back
                                     to hide away.

I'll listen;
I've always hated confrontation, anyways.

I can't rewrite my history,
nor can I turn back the needles on my watch.
So I'll rewrite myself instead.

I'll dye my hair until it's fit for a museum.
I'll burrow into my flesh and crown the wound with jewels.
I'll make my skin a canvas until you mistake me for art.

I'll do all these things
until I am lovely only to myself-
Until you flee from my presence
from the sight of me alone.

I'll remind myself its better this way,
as I surround my Ruins with those
who will gaze upon the spectacle that is my Self,
and weep-
Love unbound christen their tears and for Once

I am Whole

Beneath this stone, a soul now rests,
A life once filled with endless quests.
To find the self, a journey true,
Through art and ink, a path anew.

This body, a canvas for the mind,
Etched with symbols, a story defined.
Tattoos, a testament to the heart,
Expressing truths, never to part.

In youth, a search for identity,
Grasping for answers, a fragility.
But through the brush, the pen, the needle's touch,
A self emerged, no longer in such.

The artist's hand, a guiding light,
Unlocking doors to inner sight.
Colors and lines, a language divine,
Revealing the depths of this soul's design.

Tattoos, a tapestry of life's tale,
Scars and triumphs, never too pale.
A map of experiences, a road well trod,
Etched upon flesh, a testament to the divine.

In this final resting place, a life well-lived,
A journey of self-discovery, freely given.
Through art and ink, a legacy left behind,
A testament to the power of the human mind.

May all who pass by this humble grave,
Be inspired by the life that here did crave.
To find their own path, their own true self,
And let their story be told, not left on a shelf.

For, in the end, it is not the years that matter,
But the mark we leave, the lives we shatter.
This soul, now at peace, has found its way,
A life well-lived, a masterpiece displayed.

I came to you
with all of my insecurities
tattooed on my soul.
And the words
"I'm sorry"
dripping from my tongue.

You met me with tenderness
patience
and open arms.
and filled me with so much love
that for the first time
I felt safe.

that i am willing
to sit through this
suffering discomfort
and awkwardness
repeatedly and
of my own volition
must be a testament
to something
i am just not clear
whether it should
be taken as a positive
         or negative
it might show courage
could merely be folly
a sign of resilience perhaps
or remnants of my naivety
it could be inspirational
belief in oneself or
simply a case of conceit
let's be honest
it could be any of those
or it could be none
yet more than likely
i am overthinking
everything again

A garden on my arm
I started as a teen
An insect that does no harm
I got tattoos to show my keen
Sense of free-spiritedness
I love my art
My bare arm I won’t miss
It’s just the start
Of my self-expression
Journey to the center

She covers her body in art
Hoping one day someone will look at her
And think her beautiful

Taint, a tender trap?
Blue of the sky, remembered by a cloud:
Faintly, the poetry of life, and its hap
Has the voice to step forward, and remind the season of the proud:

A hatful of poor decision's, has its merit...
But the cool eye of embarrassment
Has come and gone, with meet to understand, limited...
To ours, the count of couth, is one more irony's lament?

Hate me when you see the dragon...
Ought fix and fit enough futures
The life of a needier first, is always a sorrow last, a harrowed tongue?
Has said the obvious, a role in the heinous is a fools curiosity...

Throwing tenderness at you, like one of thumbs even is...
Reasons may give you onus, a variety to concede a gift
Coming for beauty, and its rosy inclination, a truer wisdom
That has survived the heed, the beating wings of condition to lift:

Hate me one more time, a reality of pain has become a champion:
To the fate, the hardened courage of youth, with a challenged whisper?
May a knowing hurt, be the fascinated letter of providence
Seeing the obvious, a bird of purer colors, will finish the kiss?

Guns with an imagination...?
Salt in a brutish court, of angers more, to swear in romantic language
Still the burden of squalor, with a slighter lip of intimation?
Your fruit is sweeter by the secrecy, as if, a cold shoulder ever is a place for rage...