The kids have been asleep for hours
and the buzz of the tattoo machine could lull me to sleep
if the lines on my skin weren't so painful.
Florence + the Machine plays in the background-
lifting me up, providing my peace,
chasing away the devil in me.
I keep trying to hold my head up
but some days I'm just tired of trying
and I want to throw in the towel
but there isn't a clean one
to throw anywhere.
Tattoos are my escape,
my meditation, my passion.
My ink tells stories of love and memories and reminders to be strong-
because at times strength leaves my hands,
leaving the darkness to set in
and stormy waves crashing in my days
when i'd much rather them be sunny.
I think of what made me-
dirt roads and midnight drives,
scribbling poetry on napkins at the coffee shop late at night.
The first apartment where I lived alone
in the third story of a historic building above one of the many town bars,
where I could lay on the floor to hear the echo of the bands playing below.
The music spoke to me-
inspiration was abundant in that studio with the fire escape
that holds many memories of snowy night guitar serenades
and English tea and sleepless nights..
In this home i am surrounded by love and light,
the faces of my babies, the calls of 'mommy',
the late-night talks and cuddles a reminder of just how sweet life is
with the hum of the tattoo machine at my ear.