Underneath our skin there is a network of tattoos
Tattoos of our pleasures, fears and what we lose.
We can wear them as badges, shields, or weapons,
Or keep them inside as if they never happened.
They are all the same though, and either way,
We cannot escape them, they are here to stay.
Though we may forgive we never truly forget,
And cling to the magic, the hurt, and regret.
We choose to flaunt them, or to conceal,
But never the less, they are viscerally real.
Some tattoos you show others you hide,
It’s all up to you, your shame and your pride.
Well you turned out to be the first inspiration of the day. This poem is yours, since your own poetic line started it all
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Literature
Lady in the port
She is standing on the pier; her white skirt is licking her knees as it is fluttering in the breeze and is holding straw hat with her right hand to keep it from blowing away. Her gaze is focused on the arriving and leaving ships, which like hardworking bees keep the harbour running. Only she is standing there, unmoving, as if the whole world revolves around her, and yet she is not part of it.
The other girls throw the keys to the love locks into the water, while she salts the already salty water with her discreet tears, which glisten like diamonds as they run down her pale face. Maybe someone has left, maybe someone was supposed to come but didn’t, or only memories open unhealed wounds. She is beautiful. Her skin is clear, adorned with tiny freckles. Her eyes are blue, as if reflecting the surface of the sea and the depth of the heavens, and her long brown hair covers her narrow shoulders.
She is shining, and yet no one sees her. She sorrows, and yet from her back she looks like the
Literature
The Nereid, Thetis
She rose from the water to taunt me, to haunt me.
More beautiful than I had remembered.
The prickly, sickly smell of the low tide
pricked my pride and I was castaway
and back
to stack all my memories like coins
wagered in a strange game of time lost.The cost incalculable.So here I am, again, the green felt sand
like a belt around the girth of waters
where play the daughters of man
brushing the crushing waves
that echo into themselves
words whispered in times forgotten.
But I hear when I draw near as I dare.I am home. I am home.The bright horizon draws down the curtain
to invite the stars to dance
and stare at me, my hair caught
in a hot, f...
Literature
My Dark 1
1 awaits me in a long windowless room lined with red quilted leather, smoke flowing over Her lines. A galaxy of instruments gleams amidst funerary candles. I pause by the long surgical table at the room's centre, stroke its cool enamel surface and wait.
She watches me emerge from its depths of speculum like an uncomfortable memory.
I tell Her that I have come for the last time.
I use the proper form of words for the binding.
My offer is irrevocable.
As she turns, I feel warmth imbuing me and my skin tingles. Below a stitched vulpine mask, sharpened tusks and a dawning smile. A predatory shiver coruscates Her powerful body.
At that moment, I burn with a sensitivity and grace I can only feel here. My clothes drop to the floor. The soft skin below my ribs, the tender flesh of my arms, my nipples drip honey for Her alone.
I lie back on the table. Arch in supplication, loving the icy surface against my back. Enchanted as she arranges ornate knives at the foot of the table. Some are
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A simple poem inspired by an interesting conversation with luciekout.deviantart.com/. The relevance and gravity of a simple line can be great inspiration, and I believe this is case in point. Talk to your fellow deviants, and you will find nearly constant inspiration.
© 2018 - 2025 northernfly
Comments12
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Love this. So true! It also reminded me of Moana because of that guy with all the tattoos he gets from his adventures.