Inked – A Poem


There’s something about that mild burning pain

As the needle drags through with the ink blood stain

And the hum of the jet whirrs over the skin

And the smell of the air as the ink goes in.

The lines and the shading, the two tonal grading

As shapes take their form, and the design is now borne,

It’s all in the colour, the black and the white,

The names of your loved ones, or birds taking flight.

A memory, or treasure, inked in for your pleasure

A permanent mark, a branding on flesh

And even when over the pain is still fresh.

No rules are set, or bound by restriction

That’s why I love my ink addiction.

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