Creating, condemning,
piercing my skin with a
rough sketch, tattoo ink
and a clueless reminder
found within every pore.
Dug in,
deeper,
with a wilted tear,
stain my skin with the pain
that is what it always was.
 
A source of power.
 
That’s the dedication,
simple passionate fortitude
and a litany of ghostly whispers.
I can’t take it anymore.
It hurts merely to speak,
blood rushes forth
every time I attempt to impress.
I can’t even trust my own thoughts.
They are the writers,
I merely the scribe.
 
No, I’ve lost my friends
to the romantic dogs
that I almost got to hang out with.
Almost. But,
I stopped just short of death.
 
At least I live without peace

Check out Roberto Bolano's- "The Romantic Dogs" for that reference in the last stanza

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C.R.Stanger
over 4 years

I really
Like this ... I'd like to know more how you meant it to be understood because I think it goes over my head a few times.. But it def has something that draws me to it .. Very magnetic poem

Parker Jennings
Parker Jennings
over 4 years

Well, I think my original intent was to describe how poetry affects me in the way a tattoo inked on my skin would. OF course the meaning gets carried away, but hey that's how I like it. Poetry washed upon the waves (and all that jazz)

J Ann Crowder
over 4 years

Very nice! I like the reference to another poem. Also liked the imagery in this.

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