Invisible Ink

Life is pain; it’s tattooed on our faces.
Our eyes reflect its brilliant clarity.
We think our thoughts and tell our story.
We tattoo them on our bodies so that others can see what we hide from ourselves.

We fill our lives with symbols.
We dream they are more than just rendered illusion.
Infused with meaning that seems so powerful.
Are they truth’s which are lies unexposed?
Only you know.
Only a fool hides from themselves.

When you carve into the skin of your existence, burning sigils of power
They mark you for life; they mark you with the truth of who you are.
Be it a falsity, or the wisdom as yet unknown,
They know even what you cannot admit.

The reality of your life is indelibly imprinted upon you,
Your attempt to be a person of honor, of worth and of justice.
People can glimpse these wretched and beautiful marks,
glowing from your human skin, tattooed in the blood of your intentions.

To live is to be colored and stained.
To tattoo yourself with each choice you make.
You are the artist.

Will you invest your life’s ink with love and sweat and meaning?
Or shallowness, apathy and denial?

Our lives are marked, needled in painful lines of mortal ink.
There, to behold in the mirrors reflection.
Can you see your tattoos?
See them for what they really are?

Or are they all just invisible ink?