Thoughtful Rhymes

The Tattoo Artist

Is art a representation,
Of a heart of stone?
Or is it simply imagination,
In it's purest form?

Because my arms aren't clean,
It's the same for my heart?
You think that I'm mean,
Even though you won't let me start?

My ink is my dream,
My fucking Picasso.
My ideas are a stream,
Intersecting with tides rising and going low.

I want to bring their dreams to life,
And let them love their mind.
They may be going through a strife,
And wanting to not find,

Another fucking someone,
Who uses their kindness,
And throws them away when they're done,
And subject them to blindness.

Just because my arms aren't clean,
Doesn't mean my soul is dirty.
My art may not be perfect like a machine,
But what is a dream without a flaw to see?

My heart is more golden than yours,
Because I turn my emotions into a skin's armour.
I don't break down on my floors,
Or get drunk as a starter.

Some of us are tired of being hurt,
And some just love to be us.
Some of us are curt,
And some make a fuss.

Yet we aren't cold stone.
We're flesh and bones like you.
But we have a colorful throne,
To show we're above the bullshit and through.

The image isn't mine. Also, I J-hoped you liked this. I love the concept of an intense tattooed person being soft, so I decided to somewhat write things out. This may be an idea for a book or a chapter later😉. Bye Bye!