Thinking about getting a tattoo
But, I take pause...
Looking in the mirror
I see my body’s already covered
Marked in invisible ink
Every inch of my bare skin
Painted with the joy and pain of living
From my heart to my hips
Color faded here, but poppin’ over there
Memories designed by your hands
Others etched on my own
A collection that makes me smile
Among a few pieces I regret
So, about getting a tattoo...
I guess I’m not ready
Because I can’t think of a tattoo
Meaningful enough, yet
To write over any of the life I’ve lived

White sheets covered the ruins of the day,
Nothing really helps when you can't run away.
Bombardment dashed through the trembling city;
Left under debris, buried in your favourite graffiti.

Tell me is it really silence that I hear?
I can't be deaf, your words reach me here
You could shout at me or whisper in my ear,
Believe me it is not the voices that I fear.

Not the voices but silence.
For SILENCE IS A CUTTHROAT,
A lethal murderer of words.
Devouring a budding thought.
It is just eldritch vacuity.

White sheets covered the ruins of the day,
Nothing really helps when you can't run away.
Bombardment dashed through the trembling city;
Left under debris, buried in your favourite graffiti.

Tranquility.
A word     fell into oblivion.
Tortured.
Taking away a piece from it
Every time a man kills a kid,
Every time a mother abandons her family,
Every time we declare war on another society,
Every time we make a mistake and try to forget it,
Every time  WE  WORK  AGAINST  THE  FUTURE  AND  NOT  FOR  IT!

******* Silence.
White sheets covered the ruins of the day,
Nothing really helps when you can't run away.
Bombardment dashed through the trembling city;
Left under debris, buried in your favourite graffiti.

I can see Spring
and her fine colours
from afar.
I long to stand under the
cherry blossom tree as
it rains confetti down on me.
Instead I stand in real rain, hazy,
pattering, smatterings of daffodils
pressed against barbed wire.

my pen threw up ink on the first word i wrote,
an ugly mark smeared
halfway down the thick, cream-colored page.
looking at that inkblot i heard
a reflection of myself,
identified as that smudge for
one reason or another,
maybe the fact that
my entire identity as a whole is
based off of others interpretations of me
or the fact that
i am always a mess;
when people look at my life from a birds-eye view
i am a figure only barely discernible
from the chaos
or maybe because
people only use me as a fun party trick,
like a horoscope, an arguing matter,
a novelty,
something that’s thrown away
and tossed aside
when its duty has already
been performed.
whatever the reason,
i think i am beautiful among the madness,
despite whatever it is you see
when you look at me.