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.