Best 140 quotes in «tattoo quotes» category

I love tattoos. And mine symbolise who I really am. I have a Samurai on my left arm. At a subconscious level, I connect to this warrior and model myself on his discipline, skills and honour. There is also a tribal tattoo and a Chinese symbol of faith. I have seen a lot of people getting tattoos just because it's a trend.

I'm a big fan of zombies, and I have a zombie tattoo on my leg.

I'm a tearless clown. If I were to get a tattoo, it would be the two masks, and they would be both smiling.

I'm waiting to get old - I think old guys with tattoos look good.

I never fancied myself having a prejudice towards people with tattoos. I personally don't have any and I don't think that I do, but I do see that people treat me differently with tattoos. People get out of my way.

I removed the window [tattoo] because, while I used to spend all my time looking out through windows wishing to be outside, I now live there all the time.

I think if you're going to get a tattoo, it should be significant, especially when it's all the way up your arms and your body.

I think when tattoos are new and colorful, they look bad. But they look better the older and more bleached out they become.

I used to have a sister, but I never got to meet her because she died after two days, I think. So if I got a tattoo, it would probably have to be something to do with my sister.

I think if you're gonna get a tattoo, just get one: the words, 'I'm dumb.' That's it. That way in 10 years, when you go, 'Why did I get this?,' you can be like, 'Oh, I'm dumb!'

I've always wanted to have tattoos. I grew up around people who were very tattooed. It's a self-expression thing; it's also helped me claim my body as my own. So I think it's really positive. It's really joyful.

I've got nothing against tattoos. I don't have one myself. If I did, it would be right there next to my watch. It would say "Your wife's birthday is August 2nd, your anniversary is September 18th, don't let Ron White drive your car again.

No one wants to see a tattoo on a stomach.

Maybe. Although I doubt most Shadowhunters get a tattoo of Donatello from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on their left shoulder.

Most Shadowhunters get their first Marks at twelve. It must have been in your blood.” “Maybe. Although I doubt most Shadowhunters get a tattoo of Donatello from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on their left shoulder.” Jace looked baffled. “You wanted a turtle on your shoulder?” -Jace & Clary, pg. 314-

My muse can take the form of a landscape, an era, a style of writing, a piece of music, and, perhaps that which I find strangest of all for a muse, a human female. Of course, she's also adept at taking the form of toothless old Japanese men or young English lads with tattoos.

I want to get a tattoo of the word irony, only misspelled.

Now the tattoos," Zia announced. "Brilliant!" I said. "On your tongue," she added. "Excuse me?

Now I meet people with full-color Wolverine tattoos on their backs. Thank God I did okay, because I think if I hadn't, they'd spit on me in the street.

Take care of the sense and the sounds will take care of themselves.

People like to come up to me and tell me that I’ve got nice ink. Except these tattoos aren’t just decorations. They are declarations. Every tattoo I have tells its own story about who I am. Drug-free. Honor. And a war against the system.

Tattoos are so widespread, so ugly and so very, very permanent. You can, in theory, have them removed - but a large chunk of your living flesh will go with it.

The greatest thing you'll ever learn Is just to love and be loved in return.

Tattoo. What a loaded word it is, rife with associations to goons, goofs, bikers, tribal warriors, carnival artists, drunken sailors and floozies.

The cafe was called Tattoos. The fella who owned it didn't have any tattoos... but we never saw his wife.

My tattoo is a phoenix. I got the first when I was 16. I hid it for years.

There comes a time in a man's life when to get where he has to go - if there are no doors or windows he walks through a wall.

We all originally came from the woods! it is hard to eradicate from any of us the old taste for the tattoo and the war-paint; and the moment that money gets into our pockets, it somehow or another breaks out in ornaments on our person, without always giving refinement to our manners.

We are all tattooed in our cradles with the beliefs of our tribe; the record may seem superficial, but it is indelible.

Your tattoos are supposed to be some connection to your personality. That's a lot more important than going in and just picking one off a wall. I've never understood why people get butterflies tattooed on their bottoms or whatever. That's really weird.

You have to have your face in the food. These days people think a tattoo and a bottle of Sriracha equals success.

After a few seconds of scraping, I realize what he has isn’t a trail, it’s a whole forest! Ack! Weren’t all men supposed to shave their chest and stuff nowadays? Whatever happened to having fuzz-free Hollywood heroes as role models? At least my embarrassment is completely foregone by the irritation at his lack of upkeep. The only thing distracting me now is that heady mix of musk, shaving cream and a distinctly…male scent. And God knows that is one seriously jeopardizing distraction. Especially with a whizzing needle in one’s hand.

A colorful body with fabrics, tattoos and jewelry is attractive, but a colorful heart with love, truth and faith is beautiful.

Across the moon-pale scar that marred my forearm, Darian danced in dark ink, the gracefully curving edges of his name unravelling into a spill of colour as joyful and haphazard as the promise of stars.

A masculine man wears his attitude. He is as much comfortable wearing three piece suits as he is in wearing ripped torn jeans. He does not chase love, women, or power. He gets them anyhow. He would never ever give up his masculinity for anyone or anything in his life. He lives by his ideals that are tattooed to his soul. He does not believe in leading a comfortable life with luxuries. Rather he works hard to achieve his goals in life. He lives raw. He wanders often. And his life story becomes a testament to his masculinity!

A mind wanders, thoughts flee and memories fade. But tattoos, tattoos are forever. And if it is true to say that we carry ourselves with when we travel - then the body may very well be a beautiful canvas for the timeless lessons we learn and will learn when we travel.

Being transgender and in need of surgery is a bit like wearing a tattoo advertising something that you have no intention of selling, and constantly being asked to represent what you are not selling.

A quote is just a tattoo on the tongue.

Being open-minded dramatically reduces one’s chances of getting a permanent tattoo.

Broken hearts, you can run, you can hide and perhaps the earth is big enough to believe you’re safe. So maybe for a moment you have escaped but hear me, hear me well. Love will find you and it will leave nothing behind.

Come on, I want to add. But doing so would be like tattooing “I am up to no good” on my forehead.

Es (Tattoo) ist ein Hilferuf einer jungen Generation, gefangen in der Kurzlebigkeit unserer heutigen Welt. Man muss ihn nur verstehen und anhören.

Excuse me, I feel interrupted and I think I've overdose from the idea of loving you.

Cal opens a drawer, pulls out a sketch pad and charcoal and sets them down on a drafting table. 'Let's draw.' I smile the way I did as a child when receiving a fresh box of 64 Crayola crayons, unabashedly showing all my teeth. I remember how much I used to love to draw, and I wonder why I don't do it anymore. I write, I guess. I draw with words, but when I see Cal's pad and charcoal, I'm overwhelmed with the feeling that it's not the same. I use my words, my artist's charcoal to describe what I'm thinking. He draws with an imperfect fluidity, pausing only occasionally to shade the drawing with his thumb or brush the paper with the back of his hands. He listens and nods and doesn't interrupt. And when I'm done speaking he looks at the drawing, and his eyes get really big. Slowly, he turns his pad around for me to see. My heart stops and then starts. 'Yes,' I say. It's perfect. Alive with added detail and beautiful Inuit soulfulness I couldn't have even imagined sitting outside in my car. My fear is gone. There's a tingling in my skin, like I can feel the thousand needle pricks to come. I am alive.

Even though being a good speller has lost its ranking in school, we can hope there is one group of artisans that still finds spelling important…the tattoo artist

Every broken piece of me fell on every broken piece of you and when I took the missing parts, like the emptiness of me I saw the emptiness of you and I poured my half upon you to fill you whole. I risked it all just to dream you complete and catch you one day free in the wild.

Everything I have become, everything I will ever accomplish cannot compare to my most impressive feat: I have loved you fiercely and assiduously with the very marrow inside my bones. So that when I die, they can crack them to find you there. So that when I die, they can open me up and see your name tattooed on the wall of my heart. So that when I die, my epitaph will neither commemorate who I was nor what I did, but will read: “She loved. And loved. And loved.” And so, I smile now, because that is no small thing.

Her uneasy gaze skittered along the length of his arms, which were exposed by his rolled-up shirtsleeves... and stopped at the astonishing sight of a design that had been inked onto his right forearm. It was a small black horse with wings. Noticing her mesmerized stare, Rohan lowered his arm to give her a better view. "An Irish symbol," he murmured. "A nightmare horse, called a pooka." The absurd-sounding word brought a faint smile to Daisy's lips. "Does it wash off?" she asked hesitantly. He shook his head, his lashes half lowering over his remarkable eyes. "Is a pooka like the Pegasus of the Greek myths?" Daisy asked, flattening herself as close to the wall as possible. Rohan glanced down her body, taking a kind of leisurely inventory that no man ever had before. "No. He's far more dangerous. He has eyes of yellow fire, a stride that clears mountains, and he speaks in a human voice as deep as a cave. At midnight, he may stop in front of your house and call out your name if he wants to take you for a ride. If you go with him, he'll fly you across earth and oceans... and if you ever return, your life will never be the same.

He wore his fear on his skin for everyone to see.

His hands shift to my shoulders, and his fingers brush over the edge of my bandage. He pulls back with a puckered brow. “Are you hurt?” he asks. “No. It’s another tattoo. It’s healed, I just…wanted to keep it covered up.” “Can I see?” I nod, my throat tight. I pull my sleeve down and slip my shoulder out of it. He stares down at my shoulder for a second, and then runs his fingers over it. They rise and fall with my bones, which stick out farther than I’d like. When he touches me, I feel like everywhere his skin meets mine is changed by the connection. It sends a thrill through my stomach. Not just fear. Something else, too. A wanting. He peels the corner of the bandage away. His eyes roam over the symbol of Abnegation, and he smiles. “I have the same one,” he says, laughing. “On my back.” “Really? Can I see it?” He presses the bandage over the tattoo and pulls my shirt back over my shoulder. “Are you asking me to undress, Tris?” A nervous laugh gurgles from my throat. “Only…partially.