I remember the ink you stuck under my skin.
You loved me you left me, so did it begin.
Your name is tattooed, lying under my skin.

You were the prince of ink.
A cuttlefish they said.
I have your name strung up my arm, but you and I are dead.

You drew pictures of love hearts and flowers.
Added your name,.
I sat in the parlour for hours and hours.
While you, the artist worked.
Weaving magic.
Sadly tragic.
Scars across my open heart.
When we left hand in hand.
The heavens poured their meagre scorn.
Those heart marks wouldn't wash away.
Never in a million would I ever be set free.
A Friday afternoon alcohol session,
My consort was the prince of ink.
He captured my arm, a permanent tag.
Labelled like a superstore, an advertisement upon his bag.
All the world, look where she's been.
Tattooed lady looks obscene.
(C) LIVVI

homepage flooded
with poetry written
on topics such as
suicide,
hate,
harm,
loss,
pain
&
death;
we like it
and scroll down
we repost it
keep scrolling
we add it to our collection
and just like that
moments later
words forgotten
moved on
"next poem, please"
as if the poem
existed without
a person in pain
backing it up
as if behind the words
there was no soul
cracking at the seams
as if the poem itself
held more significance
than the (wo)man behind the pen

the least we could do
is acknowledge the existence
of the broken poet
behind the beautifully saddening poem

One day he'll be there
Maybe not tomorrow
Maybe not the next day
But one day
And when that day comes he'll never leave
He'll never second guess you
He'll always need you
And he'll stay
Not because he has to
But because he wants to
And that will happen one day