My heart has been tattoed,
Not like that of the ones on my skin,
The words, written are not to be viewed,
They show my demise like the French would say, fin.
The scars they hold my heart still,
the beating rhythms a silent echo on what used to be,
the ink, drenching through the veins like sap to a sycamore maple,
creating a vision of black for my soul to see.
The crushing defeat of a boy before becoming a man,
the words and physical pain inflicted till he was nothing but a shell,
an empty carcass walking through life with no plan,
the warm comfort of a forthcoming death would help escape him from this hell.
The tattoo is still displayed on my heart,
the years have faded away some of its strength,
light has filtered through bit by bit, more than the start,
time has healed many wounds, leaps and bounds have been made in great length.
At times I look back on those days,
wondering if I would have tried again if it had continued,
hoping that the pain felt in those moments would ever fade away,
back in the days when my heart was tattoed.