Is it what defines me, is it who I am?
My tattooed skin.
That pierces my flesh, just a shell of myself, on my tattooed skin.
You say it’s ink, I say it is art, my tattooed skin.
Is this what I think, am I speaking from heart? My tattooed skin.
Is this what I dream or art imitating life, my tattooed skin.
Is it the pleasure when it’s finished or the pain that cuts as a knife, my tattooed skin. Is this how I feel, my only form of my expression, my tattooed skin.
On my flesh exposing the life of my depression, my tattooed skin.
Do you admire, yet, desire my tattooed skin.
This passionate fire on my tattooed skin. This tale of glory, now a walking story on my tattooed skin.
Though you ignore me, read my story on my tattooed skin.
Again I ask, is it what defines me? My tattooed skin.
Everything I’ve been through reminds me, when I look at my tattooed skin.
© Isaiah Daniel McCowan