"tattooed" poems
Late night car rides,
Empty pints of *****
A one-night ecstacy,
With a heartbreak dawn:
She shows her shallows,
As if they're great depths;
A cry of sorrow? Honey,
You ain't seen nothing yet.
She's not an open book,
She's just a bookmark type of personality.
Stuck between the pages of something more interesting,
Like a catalog or a Cosmo magazine.
Oh, she's always just caught between someone's pages,
With bits and pieces of their's stories rubbing off on her,
But them words don't look the same tattooed on her, oh no.
So stop pretending you're the deepest sea,
Your pretentious crap never fooled me.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
The distant hollow of the high mountain pass
swallows the setting sun as it steals away southbound
behind the coastal mountain's tangerine sunset hued silhouettes
Mulberry plashed shadows pointing northward
across the evergreens outstretched dimming,
beneath the waning fade of each fleeting eventide
Sundown ebbing asunder the wafting daylight,
each gloaming of the day, helplessly a moment sooner past,
transfixed further south beyond yesterday's passing azure
The lazy days of summer escape unbounded,
nomadic as the sea I've seen sail away before;
evanescent as the beauty of the bloom summer days beheld
and the memory of the fragrance they exhale
The nebulous weight of the gravity is consciously denied
by the truths a human heart beholds
A moment’s epiphany afflicts like a rogue wave in a calm sea;
the only thing my heart ever wanted remains out of reach
Everything my heart needs consciously surrendering
to the poignant passing moment's beauty,
the falling sun at distance sets more suddenly now
Lost in the undeniable certainty
life's imminent season's change
Eyes drawn stubbornly from presence to a sky so far away,
knowing there'll be no restitution for the welling sense of loss...
A bitter sweet song mummers in the silence of the absorbing spell,
summer's sun stained pages of watermarked soul scribbles,
time tattooed reparation for the indelible ache
of a harsh grey winter loneliness
Perhaps too familiar, this whelming Déjà vu
that tears my soul; that tugs at these roots
but cannot sever their sacred grasp
But for now, eyes fixed to the sun's
inevitable tightening tether hence —
to wear weary each fraying thread's impending break
Each sunset leans a deeper angle southward
as it slips down through the firwood shadows;
illuminating other faraway latitudes
far beyond the distant horizon skies
The preordained continuum unfolding what will be ...
someone you used to know ... September 11, 2017 ... 7:30 PM
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
If you are a suicide survivor
Inbox me your name
And I’ll add it to my tattoos of others
You guys mean the world to me
And I have my own name on my arm
Because I too, am a suicide survivor.
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 6:50 PM UTC
* * * * *
* * *
*
Faces of friends, of people i met earlier
are glittering stars on this late evening's
dark blue sky...their smiles are tattooed
in my mind...they're hunched, going
lower by the days...slowed down by years.
it must be hard and painful...the arching,
the drooping of the neck, the curving spine,
they endure all, 'til each day's end...they rise
each new dawn...do what they still can do,
lest they stagnate in their aging ponds,
diminish to a state, where food, pills, or
forgotten information are forced on them,
......like drugs, injected into the veins
........................
these wee hours bring back the years...
they have been good...never mind the
hard times...there were, there are good ones
life is a long, wide stream of changing hues,
flowing on and on....my water bears the
colors each new day brings...gray, at times
with sadness and gloom....other days,
blacked by despair...some summers, red,
roseate with glee, or green with life and
hope...blue, when trust is spilling, and
the tranquil sea and sky overwhelm,
with a promise of stability..........white,
when accepting......the unacceptable...
........................
the amber grains and i, are alike
ripened enough to be plucked
be pulled out from an existence...the
signs are known...shown...yet, i wait
for when it is due to happen...and while
waiting, the stalks sway, play and dance
and enjoy the sun and wind...and i,
while i still can...walk, jump, climb hills
and valleys in this mammoth space
of land and water.............called life
...................
the sounds of my days, i still hear,
i am a lute, a harp, a cello...playing
off-key.....out of tune at times,
my strings are my graying hair,
i still can't stop dying the gray
i still want to highlight the dark,
but, one day, all these will cease...
............
one night, my face will be in one of those
many stars...glittering on a dark blue sky
sending a smile, to my loved ones.
...................
(there is no other way,
but forward
all are headed
towards an end.)
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
June 26, 2018
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.
for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?
the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.
no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.
so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.
hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.
instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son
I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
i slipped out
into the waves of watercolour
that broke themselves upon the shore
of the horizon
and i disappeared
as they darkened into black
i escaped through the sunset
as words were climbing up my legs
setting fire to my ears
and forcing me to retreat away
from the choking letters and sinking ink
that tattooed all this sound into my skin
at first, the sunset saved me
and the waves that gently hit the dock felt like a heartbeat
telling me that this was how it would always be
but soon, i began to miss the panic
just for the simple fact that it was a feeling
and the sunset had stolen them all from me
leaving me bare, black and stretched high above
unable to land on the ground again
unable to even blink stars down onto the grass
unable to do anything
other than wait for the sun to rise again
but solstice has already passed
and the dark hours grow longer again
and i am pulled thin, veiling a world
that accepts me as the night
and doesn't even miss the stars
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
My wrists and thighs
Tattooed with white stripes
My mind consumed in darkness
My eyes clouded with nothingness..
My wrists and thighs stained red
My mind fading
My eyes rimmed with lack of sleep
Depression.
s.j.d
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
Be kind to yourself.
You have come so far.
Each emotion you feel tattooed
to your skin
the seasons wash away like chalk.
Be kind to yourself.
You are braver than you thought.
No longer scared of what lies
beneath your bed
but what awaits when you wake up.
Be kind to yourself.
You are worthy of love.
Only you give permission
for forked tongues
to leave passing words as lasting scars.
Only you can adopt old failures
and stack them as obstacles
upon each new path.
You cannot dictate what will be
only – who you are.
Be kind to yourself.
You are doing enough.
You cannot always be switched on.
Sometimes you have to lay down
and breathe –
it is not greed.
If you are always exhausted
you cannot help anybody.
Be kind to yourself.
You did not grow
from a single cell
born from a dying star
in order to feel so small.
You did not close the door
on friends when you expected
more from them.
Why beat yourself up
for who you were before?
Be kind to yourself.
A faltering dancer who gets up
again and again
draws the loudest applause
at the curtain call.
A person who spent half their life
at war with themselves
knows the value of peace,
the feat of getting out the house;
the measure of good mental health.
Be kind to yourself.
You have come so far.
They say ten thousand hours
is the time it takes
to master an art.
You spent so much longer than that
learning the patterns of your heart.
You can pull at those common threads
that keep you together
even when you are falling apart.
Be kind to yourself.
You are stronger than you thought.
Like Leonard says,
“there’s a crack of light in everything. “
You do not have to be perfect.
You do not have to live in the dark.
Be kind to yourself.
Make sure you get to the end.
Do not worry
how you stumbled at the start.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 4:14 PM UTC
03:00
When I think about never speaking to him again, I picture a girl walking in a crowd that’s all moving in the same direction, and then suddenly she drops everything she’s holding and turns around and starts running as fast as she can, smiling and pushing past everyone till finally she reaches an open space and her face looks like sunshine as her hair blows behind her in the wind and she’s free she’s free, oh God, she’s free.
03:15
But then I think about walking into a doctor’s office ten years from now and sitting on a cold metal table, staring at my legs dangling off the edge, waiting. And then I look up as the door opens slowly, not expecting to see his tattooed arms hidden in a lab coat, but there he is and, oh God, his eyes haven’t changed, and I can’t breathe, and he just stands there, looking at me like an unfinished sentence. Then I’d have to let him put a stethoscope to my chest and listen to my heart and I wonder what it’d sound like, if it would sound like messy half beats of missing him. If he’d be able to tell. If he’d care.
03:30
Or maybe the next time I see him, if I ever see him again, we’ll both be whole versions of ourselves, content and in good places, our lives all sorted out and how we always hoped they’d be. And maybe we’d be able to talk about the weather and our kids and the lives we created apart. And maybe I’d be able to look at him with only feelings of pleasant acquaintance and relative indifference, not seeing the boy I fell for when I should’ve been focused on catching myself.
03:45
And I know I should find comfort in thinking about how one day I may look at him and feel nothing,
04:00
but it’s four in the morning and I don’t want to let go.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
Corrupt and quiet
Brain damaged
Like a mental hemorrhaging
A ****** heart's craving
Tattooed on your clear skin
Running hands over it
Dusting off your innocence
Dancing on ground that's caving in
Men and women in pain
Broken children going insane
Holding their breaths
Hearts heaving in their chests
Painstaking memories
Sipping tears from souls unclean
Empty verses, lyrics obscene
Children who will never be seen
You've lost your health
Now, what do you have left?
***** just like the rest
Nothing to show, no family crest
Tear jerkers
Hard workers
Acid-bathed men
You simply cannot win
Thoughts under arrest
Burning names off the list
Fighting with a pointless fist
Lost in the lifeless mist
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
The essence of your being is here to stay
as it infuses with my skin and heart and eyes and touch
my skin has been tattooed through your caress
and my heart has been mended by the way your eyes peer into my soul you fill me with love and make me whole
in retrospect i truly thought i knew what love was
but this was all a lie until i had met you
masochistic obsession is all i was familiar with
blinking the past away
i am aware of you and our future and our present
and how i will never let that get away
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 4:00 PM UTC
On Monday we met, our eyes fixated on one another, eager to know more
On Tuesday we talked, twiddling our thumbs, fidgeting in our seats, pondering on the right things to say
On Wednesday we hugged, your arms held me close, heartbeats in sync, I felt myself floating
On Thursday we kissed, our lips gravitated towards each other, like the moon and the sea, the connection was natural
On Friday we confessed, three little words wrapped around our ears,
forever tattooed in our minds
On Saturday you disappeared, no note, no call, no text
not a trace of you left that I could still hold on to
On Sunday I cried, my heart still beats, but never the same way,
would you ever give me a reason if I ever asked "Why?"
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC
I found graffiti pleasing
On my worst of days
Painted prejudice against order and orders
Alive on a ton of bricks.
One such image stuck with me
A giraffe, long necked and smiling
Happier than me, but
Not tragically alive so.
I loved him and I
Thought I would get him tattooed.
Unlikely, the permanent terrifies me.
And doing so would insult that lovely little message.
His smile meant,
Don't be afraid of sadness,
For like happiness, it goes,
You are a ship facing waves of both,
There were stormy seas ahead.
I smile, because, it took something so permanent
Something so fixed
As a smile on a wall
To let me know that nothing stays the same.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
Tattoo's on the skin tell a story they hide a lot of sin.
They tell of personal pain and personal truth.
A person's journey may told by the tattoo's on their skin.
Triumphs, truths,lies and love are tattoo's on skin.
Even though the tattoo isn't visible doesn't mean it isn't there.
Life is a like a tattoo it comes in many forms and shapes just like people.
The colors vivid as blood and ink mix together in a dance intertwined,the script and symbols captured.
All of us are marked, we are unique, we burn with life that is our own personal tattoo.
Inked onto flesh is special meaning frozen in time now there for life.
Unfolding into all i am and will be the ink that is there tattooed on my skin, Is there for the world to see.
Written 3rd June 2014
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 12:35 PM UTC
To hear the priceless sounds,
No medicine competes.
In the rhythms, I am bound
In success or in defeat.
through the tolling of the time-
With those quickening beats,
The sound invokes with clever rhyme
both privilege and a treat:
Light and easy, peaceful and bright,
Or Insidious, sinister, audio plight.
Sorrow, hatred; loss and gain
Drugs and *** and love and pain.
From Intro to Chorus, to Verse-Refrain
melodies tattooed deep in the brain;
Act as the sun, when it does rain
And as both dirt and soap, when life does stain.
Jun 20, 2017
Jun 20, 2017 at 12:09 AM UTC
*all my life i held a dream
of a woman i would love
of course
she would be alluring
supple
a charming countenance
erudite, with an angelic face
her body
a muscular stretching willow
arching her legs over head
kissing her own
curving soft feet
a graceful contortionist
in confetti colored sparkle pantyhose
stretching towards me
silken hair draping a perfect symmetry
with spun sugar kisses
wafting the scent of vanilla
and candied vaporous breath
lips like cherry lozenges
but
one never knows ones destiny
i met her
my girl destiny
and except for a faint look of languor and ruin
with a tinge of withering
she was without doubt unbearably titillating
with razor-thin blackened lips
mascara slits for eyes
hair pulled straight back
jet black
jelled like hardened licorice
with satanic blood rivulets
and pitch fork tattooed ****
a vice of lechery
a malefaction of moral turpitude
her *** scarred from orgiastic beatings
her **** became
like a large wrinkly mouth
resembling the face of a bullfrog
from pleasuring herself with
tableware cutlery
her soul
a broken creel
suffering bouts of anxiety
like a weeping moon
having been institutionalized
in Mother Marys Hell House
from a ghastly bout of parricide
her father,
a hobbling gloomish troll
while the dark veins of mother
ran through her soul
leaving little choice
but to dispatch
the parents
abandoning their corpses in the kitchen
like strewn litter
turned out
just my
kinda
girl
d
e
s
t
i
n
y
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
I had always figured that in a few years, today’s date would be tattooed on the inside of my left wrist. Now the only tattoos I have are the scars you left in the depths of my mind, and the memory of a summer I won’t forget.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 2:13 PM UTC
We sat across the table
and I couldn't look away
from all his tattoos.
Without thinking,
I stretched out my hand
and extended my finger.
I began to trace
the arcade tickets that ran
the length of his arm.
He grew up with his grandfather
and they spent hours in his arcade.
His grandfather was his first best friend,
so the tickets they won were his first tattoo.
I could feel his smile grow.
He loved his tattoos
and now I did, too.
He left a mark on my life.
Just like the ink
on his skin.
I see him everywhere.
I can't tell if he tattooed himself
in my mind or under my eyes.
There's no escaping
or replacing him.
There's just no one like him.
He had a kind of goodness
that could be seen
in the smile that
would burn into the back of my mind,
haunting me for years.
He was just dorky enough
to get a laugh out of me
when I had the weight of the
world on my chest.
If you're lucky enough
to even know him,
he'll put a tattoo in you, too.
Whether you want it or not,
you will never forget him.
Trust me, I've tried.
He comes out of nowhere
and he helps you.
He asks for help
just as much as you.
It's just enough
to make you think
that he needs you, too.
God knows he was what I needed.
I needed him like
an alcoholic needs his whisky.
He was my whisky.
His finger tips
had a different kind of ink
and he was part of me with every touch.
I swear he had needles
in the tips of his fingers.
His touch always stung,
and now I will never
forget that sting
that is now stuck
in the parts of me he touched.
All the hugs,
the intentional and unintentional ways
that we touched.
They left their mark,
their pain-riddled stain on me.
The stains of him were left
with memories and stories
and they were attached
to songs that I can no longer listen to
and places I can no longer visit.
He came into my life so quick
and he left just as fast.
I think about him often.
I dream about him often.
It's like he stops in now and then
to catch up in chat in my sleep.
He took a part of me
with him when he left.
But his memories remain
and I don't want them.
I think about the goals he had
and I hope he achieves them.
I just wish I could be the one
that gets to congratulate him.
He will be leaving in August
and I will probably never see
or talk to him again.
But I will never be able
to forget him.
He is the one tattoo
I wish I could remove.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:16 PM UTC
but have you noticed, have you noticed how all mental health problems
stem form a seemingly aether virus that attacks the pronoun category;
i mean with proper justifiable schizoids you will not hear of the nouns
being ransacked for an equation that equates itself to misnomers;
it's all categorised negation of ease within the framework of pronouns.
it's strange that philosophers stress the pronouns so much these days
and those countless prior, but why do mental health diseases
attack the pronouns and not the nouns? they attack the verbs
thoroughly, but prior to the verbs exposing an illness
the pronouns are attacked, so that many considering the singularity
of expressing thought are ill because of being forced into a plural expression
of thought: "voices." i find it hard to understand, but it's the reality,
the aether virus attacks the pronoun
on the backdrop of a king's casual expression / use
of pronouns, when a king casually says
of himself as omni or multi with one and we respectively;
so why are pronouns so weak and nouns so strong
that a tree cannot be a misnomer attaché of timber
and rock not a pillar, or mountain as the verb: mountaineering?
the pronoun category is weak from day one,
because it suggests photographic duck animation on the lip pursed
into a quack quack, but if we constructed thought
without knowledge prior, eating the fruit of knowledge
rather than the fruit of thought, using the starting point
of the genesis metaphor, it's sometimes a no brainer
to have weak thinking and strength in knowing,
for if there was strength in thinking and weakness in knowing,
i'd be the one chiseling these words in the ice age on a cavern wall.
so, given, that diseases such as the famed premature dementia
attack the pronouns but not the nouns the schizoid one
will convene life with: pizza is pizza and sunshine ray down the drain
clock the millionth dead parting of grasshoppers in decimals -
while man unto man lusts one man's parting in decimals,
but should dire said, part man with integers, and insects with decimals!
but still, in the terminology of a cartesian understanding of illness,
in that segregational aspect of things "sorted,"
why are mental illnesses tattooed in a weak pronoun usage
compared to a strength in other grammatical categories?
why are not mental illnesses ******* the life out of the nouns?
the nouns are intact, the pronouns attacked,
and the verbs chess piece the pawn from the casually speaking clown king
into a beast imprisoned, for while the pronouns are attacked
and the nouns left intact, the attack on pronouns expresses itself
fully in verbs of the never existent tact: with such magic
as to claim knock knock on plank is the same as knock knock on veneer.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
summertime is here and flowers bloom
but inside my ghostly heart there is only gloom
because you're in love with my dreams
when the doors are shut and the curtains are closed
yet late at night i still yearn for you across the bay
in this much too-large bed i lay
desperately wishing you were *****
wait, no-
that's not it
i just wish that my side was the one on which you'd sit
i want you to sleep in my bed
i want to put him out of your head
i want it to be my baby in your crib
i want your third finger to wear my ring
i want you to be able to give me your everything
do you know what i want more than that?
i want to erase him from existence
i want to rub out the last five years
like chalk from a chalkboard
and start anew with you
i want to pick up where we left off
with you waiting patiently for me
hanging on my every word
as though they were the sweetest sounds you've heard
like honeysuckle or roses or poppies
or daisies
but no
you loved me too
well guess what? i love you
no past tense
no "too"
i love you
everything i do
every breath i take
every time my hands shake
every smile i wear
oh, that's my cross to bear
the ***** the banter, the banquets, the bands
my darling dear, it's all for you
don't you see?
why can't you understand
the part of my plan
where five years just disappear
this house is too big for only me (lonely me)
i should be laying next to you
but all i have is this green light
i close my eyes but it's tattooed inside
i wish i could put that thing out of my sight
but when you're laying in his bed
at least i still have my green light
to give me solace at night
lovely lady, i'll follow your lead
i learned to do that in the war
no matter how far
you have my heart
just promise to hold it dear
and for the rest of my days
i know i will have no fear
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 7:01 PM UTC
I'll write a poem on your skin
With my lips, our love tattooed on every inch
At the back of your ear, your delicate nape
Your perfect spine and cheeks like wine
I'll breathe the words in your mouth
Let your soul read and keep my oath
Trace it in your waist and engrave the lines
Down to the lovely hidden shrine
Your eyes on my eyes, my warm hands on your hips
I can hear our poem inside your chest
The rhythm of our hearts will turn it into a song
And with your gentle kiss
I'll write again.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
Dear father,
I still remember the last time I saw you
It's funny, because you looked just the same as you always did
Like someone
Who was never really mine.
Like a stranger in disguise
Who's reality only exists
When I close my eyes and fantasize about you being in my life
But I guess
When you heard you should live your life without
Regret
You mistook that for my name
And I wonder if you will ever understand the pain
Of knowing someone only when you imagine them
Or loving someone who thought
Never talk to strangers
Was a lesson best learnt by example
But they say actions speak louder than words
And you became so consumed by your own self worth to really give a **** about who you hurt
So you became the expert
At manipulating words
Like turning
I love yous into sorrys
And
Tomorrows into yesterdays
Until it was safe to say I couldn't count on you
Dear father,
Because of you
I constantly found myself falling in love with things that could never love me back
I became infatuated with sandcastle and snowflakes
Addicted to temporary moments
Addicted to broken
Thought if I learnt to fix things
Then somehow
I might find the manuscript
To piecing the shattered part of my being whole again
Because of you
I spent years trying to cover this skin that you left me with
Tried decorating these scars
With tattooed hopes
To remind myself
That sometimes
Some things
Were made to last forever
Because of you,
For years I avoided looking into the mirror
Because I never truly knew
If you could love someone
You only ever met in passing
You see
I mistook your ***** for water
I never realised I was internally drowning in your poison
I thought I needed you to stay afloat
It took me a long time to realise
That ***** was just your way of relieving yourself from blame
You became a box full of things
I packed away the day you left
But I've stopped trying to hold on to your burden
So I've taken out my smile
And I'll wear it with pride
And Dear father,
Did you know
That if you repeat a word enough times
Then eventually the word will start to lose it's meaning?
And I've stopped wishing I was still young enough to understand
What the word father meant
And now no know
That if I ever see you again
Then you will look just the same as you always did
Like someone
who doesn't deserve to be mine
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 9:52 PM UTC
I sat in history class
Must have been
My senior
Or junior year
On the screen
Came horrible things
Emaciated
Decimated
Human beings
Numbers tattooed
Bodies burnt
Gas chambers
Stories so cruel
Years after we read
Anne Frank’s diary
But no one really had a clue
The pictures
Were part of a documentary
Made to remind us
Of human insanity
Skin and bones
Broken men
Barely left standing
Human suffering
I couldn’t help but cry
But behind me no one else did
And then I couldn’t help but wonder why
No one else felt the same sadness in it
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 6:26 PM UTC
Goth Child nursed his mother's tattooed *****
Snapped **** with teeth
Then grizzled grin at me and spit up
I poked at my chile relleno
Twisting hot cheesy sludge off prongs
Tour jete with fork finishes in arabesque
Between my own fangs
I spit back scalding ****
Goth Child points, says, "Pawpee, that man is scarewee"
Pawpee turns his tattoo tears to see
Flashes his gleaming grill
I sink in my seat behind sightline of salsa squeeze bottle
Chattering ivories
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC