Long Tattoos Poems
Long Tattoos Poems. Below are the most popular long Tattoos by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tattoos poems by poem length and keyword.
Unspoken Game
Unspoken Game a game like no other's some play with the mind and athers with the heart it up to the player
No man believe what's before me single angles out to play. The lack of words is too strong to connect with them. Looking out of questions with tattoos.
Think of it as a durk of cards. And I just drawn my Queen. Black in color white in nature she's a diamond in Africa.
Call me Mr flavour cause am in love with you. Stress lights can't relate to the darkness of my soul that's being displayed but the next level has unlocked.
Smiling to the lost soul, so many options in display but my heart can only be yours. Let you be my right hand.
Let it not be me but the haven choice there for my love grow for you. You getting prettier every sec is something I wanna get use to.
Hold my hand and never let go. Call me Mr flavour and I shall make your day course you are a 100 over 10 . Let no athers tell you lie's.
Move to the music of my heart course that's where I wanna have every corner of your love. Lil angle am in love with you.
Call me Mr flavour in all four seasons and I shall make it your season course every season shall adapt to our love. So call me Mr flavour.
Like footprints in the sand
Leaving tattoos from the start
Walking hand in hand
Gripping tightly, my heart
I won't ease up
My fingers clinch tighter
Though you're growing tough
I am a fighter
My child, you will stay
For all of my days
And when my brown hair is gray
Memories will replay
You will plant your seeds
For your dreams to flourish
And when your first born breathes
At ease, you will nourish
At that moment, I will rest
As you take on my role
The beginning of your quest
My purpose will unfold
But you can be certain
When I look at your face
There will be no aged curtain
Yet a veil of lace
Not to be taken lightly, I burnt all my clothes
Cut the tattoos off my back, tore pins from my nose
Foraged for food particles, where wild beasts reposed
Lapped water vapour off thorns, when the thirst arose
My identity gone, I herded mountain goats
Built a makeshift altar, one by one, slit their throats
Looking to the heavens, chanting primeval quotes
Tell me what to do, this sacrifice I devote
But silence returned, I knew nothing else mattered
The goats now all dead, my hands blooded and spattered
A local tribe watched on, their souls not so shattered
Idolised me, then to the four winds they scattered
After two score and ten, they returned unforetold
Carrying symbols, textbooks, diamonds, and gold
Smiling in joy, I asked what stories they behold
All wrote versions of my life in books, but mistold
Some had butchered nations, said it was in my name
Others brainwashed little children, feeling no shame
The rest knocked on doors, telling lies they heal the lame
Scamming billions of sesterces, their one true aim
I condemned the lies, but was a very bad call
They burst into laughter, and pointed to their haul
Just then everything made sense, as I do recall
Killing goats made me, the biggest scapegoat of all
`
Love, to you
nothing more than washed away graffiti,
once dripping along the
mismatched bricks of this worn facade
where tattoos mean forever . . .
even when they fade
A clutched lamppost,
scarred and dented, a fake shade of green
meant only for leaning
and illuminating handbills advertising
high rent in the slums,
supports me
As I look beyond the littered gutters
needing a good rain to wash away the past
where you left me standing again,
uncovered, exposed . . .
winter called and thinking it was you,
(it had the same chill affect) I answered
I thought you were it, that thing that I needed,
not a leaking roof draped in a blue tarp,
but the east to my west
when my direction pointed north
until you ran south
taking it all with you
Beyond my control,
you laughed at love, (cackled)
thought you knew better,
cut holes in my umbrella
and then prayed for rain,
while my life was already drowning
You gave it and took it
and with my happiness in tow
on that one way street
where “No Vacancy” signs were misspelled,
drove away, drove away from me,
tail lamps and your heart . . . never braking
11/12/19
Written for the Pale Shelter Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Hamilton
The orange glow of the setting sun
tattoos the horizon and the day is done
hours of burdens and rewards subdued
to allow for a walk in solitude
Sleep fades into random thoughts
attempts at meditation all are nought
reflections embellish gratitude
to allow for a walk in solitude
The radiance of a golden sunrise
lauds another day to idealize
a renewal of tremendous multitude
to allow for a walk in solitude
Individuality of choice dispersion
inevitably belongs to that person
mercy a need in great magnitude
to allow for a walk in solitude
August 5, 2018
August 6, 2018 - For Your Poetry Journal Contest
By Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings
Fourth Place
August 7, 2018 - August 2018 Premiere Contest
By Brian Strand
Fourth Place
We label not only ourselves but others.
Multiple personality, schizophrenic, bi-polar.
Everyone fights for a seat at the Asperger table.
We all want to become something special.
Downing our valium and lithium pills at an alarming rate.
We are shaky and unsteady now; fuzzy thinking but content.
Because we have our labels, wearing them prominently.
Stamping our skin with tattoos of truth and valor.
We convince ourselves we are unique
When in fact, we are but a pack of minions
all vying for the same labels,
heading toward a sleepless night
Anxiety compounded upon anxiety
thanks to our ridiculous addiction to the news
Turn off the murders and rapes; we don’t need them!
But wait, maybe we do ….
to justify our labels.
In the heart of the Pacific, where waves cradle secrets,
**Tatau** emerges—a sacred script etched upon skin,
A symphony of charcoal rivers, whispered stories,
**Samoan souls bloom**.
**Pe'a**, the male canvas, bears courage's weight,
Thighs adorned with ancestral tales—
A map of strength, resilience, and honor.
Charcoal ink flows, tracing lineage,
Each stroke a testament to warriors past,
Their spirits dancing in the breeze.
And there, beneath the tropical sun,
**Malu** unfolds—a sacred shield for women,
Knees to thighs, sheltering grace.
In its intricate patterns, life's storms find refuge,
As if the very fabric of the universe weaves protection.
**Ready for life's tempests**, they stand,
Rooted in tradition, adorned with purpose.
**Ink and pain**, woven into existence,
Elders nod approval, their eyes reflecting wisdom.
The sting of the needle, a rite of passage,
A metamorphosis from youth to maturity.
These inked skins tell tales of resilience,
Of navigating tides and finding constellations,
Of embracing both shadow and light.
And when the village gathers, women dance—
Their legs adorned, a living canvas,
Patterns intertwining like laughter and song.
**Beauty etched in skin**, a celebration of identity,
A dance of belonging, of shared memories,
Of ancestors whispering through the ink.
**Ancient art**, spanning three millennia,
**Marked bodies**, honor's canvas,
Culture's heartbeat inked into existence.
In the land of waves, where coconut palms sway,
Tatau and Malu intertwine,
Their stories etched upon the flesh,
A living testament to resilience and pride.
So let the trade winds carry these words:
**Samoan tattoos**, more than mere ink,
They are the heartbeat of a people,
A legacy woven into the very fabric of time.
"Neophoca"
I was dragged
out of my ocean
of dreams
when they peeled
my skin, I was broken,
an endangered species
feeding bits of me
to the carniverous
genus species
the genus
and gender
predatory
covetting my
freedom they
lost themselves
in the comforting
arms of my trust
they wore me out
made sleeves
of me, stole
my baby
expensive collateral;
their ownership belittled,
bruised and scorched
victory marks
like tattoos
marched on me
they branded me,
attached
to my life
untruthful labels,
their ignorance
basking
became them,
the sins
of the fetid
patriarchy
such violence, this
devoted dv, the human
seed planted
my baby,
zoo trained
and chained
I became uprooted
stalked, staked and
claimed
I became owned
I drowned in my
mortal dreams
such violence, this
devoted dv, the
imprisoned truth
life blood escaping
the juxtaposed
real me
Selkie
the humble humboldt
priests call me
Neophoca cinerea
they call me
reverently,
they sing me home,
home
to my only
holy See
they call me
reverently
Selkie
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
Dream Date – Perfect Woman - Didactic
I like a woman with a pulse
Not too strong though
Competition frightens me
She should come from parents, (maybe two)
Not hatched from an egg
Skin of seasoned leather with cratered face
If her leg is missing, left or right, that’s ok
As long as she has one to hop away
Crime should always be on her mind
Stealing wallets and purses makes her perfect
I don’t like to work so there must be a career girl lurking
The perfect woman carries her own paper bags
For her face while making love and robbing banks
I want a girl who comes with her own card board box for two
A place that we call home
If she is psychotic that’s fine too
A girl with stinky feet and monster tattoos will do
And takes a butcher knife to bed when day is done
I like adventure
11/21/14 "Didactic Poem" Poetry Contest
star-swept with
soft blushing blooms ...
this slow sink ,
swathes my henna heart
with deep mauve hues ...
as I fall into the frostbitten lake
mispronouncing ~
the marmoris of metaphors
that were meant
to burn with magic ,
where the soulmate of poetry
breaks within the tears of sunset ~
sipping sighs of sorrow
from the crystal sky ,
that leaks loneliness
through the cracks of
liquid lilacs and lavender light ,
because there seems to be
no translation for the
language of love
that weaves woes
from warm wisteria
instead of blossoming
in coffee-scented chiffons
moulded into origami orchids ~
without any creases
and I wear no name
in the absence
of your ablaze august ashes …
read me swiftly
orchestrating in
the blackcurrant tattoos
breathing ... in tributaries
stretching to
the silent traces of trauma ,
twinkling with
turquoise and turpentine
for, I am not alive ~
but the seas still crash
the swollen shadows in my ribs ,
kissing the fallen sun …
that ebbs and flows …
through violets
of vaporising violas
like an incensed inferno ,
uncensored with ultraviolence
escaping the delirious doom
within driftwood dreams …
I want you ~
to not speak to me
so in affection
in this sparkling satanic siesta,
because poetry
has forevermore been
my saviour and my slaughterer ~
that leaves me …
drifting with the flow ,
in exile … evermore …
chained with
moonstone cobwebs
of confused consciousness
and conversing cryptics ~
befogged with gaslit goldens
laced with forest greens,
where verses wander
like a villain ,
withering
in emeralds …
listen, O velvet ink,
longing to be
r e
s c u
e d …