Arm Tattoos With Quotes & Sayings

On the face of her phone
Wileen programs a message to herself
so that when the alarm clock rings
the screen flashes:
EVERY DAY IS ONE DAY LESS.
EVERY DAY IS ONE DAY LESS.
For some people
happiness
it's just a reduction in suffering.
Jordan.
Jordan tattoos the words
FORGIVE ME
in thick black letters
down the inside of his arm
so that when he looks at his wrist
he will remember not to hate himself so much.
What he keeps forgetting
is that there is life after survival. — Buddy Wakefield

Vas laughed. "Better listen to her, Kereseth. Those aren't little heart tattoos she hides under that arm guard. — Veronica Roth

I'm a very traditional person. The tattoos are about my grandmother dying and they tell the story about my mother and father, my brothers and my sister, my kids. It's pretty much a family tree on my arm with my life in football too. — Timothy F. Cahill

You can't miss your schedule. Every morning, you're supposed to stick your right arm in this contraption in the wall. It tattoos the smooth inside of your forearm with your schedule for the day in a sickly purple ink. 7:00 - Breakfast. 7:30 - Kitchen Duties. 8:30 - Education Center, Room 17. And so on. The ink is indelible until 22:00 - Bathing — Suzanne Collins

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. — Virat Kohli

As soon as I saw tattoos as a way to tell your story, I thought, 'Oh my gosh, I totally get it.' So I got my first tattoo a couple of years ago, and it's the word 'hope' on my left arm. It has a couple of dots at the end for each of my kids. — Kristian Bush

I get the niggling feeling in my belly that says it's time for a new song. It hits at the most random, inopportune times. Fucking creative muse bitch. I stand up quick and grab a pen from the desk in the corner, flipping my arm over and finding a space between the tattoos. — C.M. Stunich

Sometimes it seemed as if he'd always been very old. People said that time lasted for ever when you were young. That was lies. Lies and rosy spectacles. His spectacles were steel frames and time was those tattoos on Vasco's arm. They were more like time than anything else. Once, in the Empire of Junk, he'd seen an hour-glass. Now that came closest to the truth. Except you could turn it upside down and start again. So that was lies too. The sand should run out the first time, run right out. Once, and once only. Time wasn't outside you, it was inside. [ ... ] Time was something that went bad, like fruit. To be used before it was all used up. Though, for most people, the only way to live was to deny that. — Rupert Thomson

Blake and Beckett touched tattoos in greeting. Beckett turned his other arm over to show Blake his bandage. Blake lifted one eyebrow, and Beckett peeled the tape back to reveal his new Sorry tattoo, a perfect replica of his brother's.
"Cole got one too," Beckett said.
Blake looked off in the distance as his eyes filled with emotion.
Beckett pulled Blake's face back to look at him and held it in his hand. "Never alone, bro. You're never alone as long as I live."
Blake nodded. "Thanks. — Debra Anastasia

I stared straight ahead like a gangsta, never acknowledging the cast of Hannah Montana sitting next to me, and fantasized that they were staring at me out of the corners of their eyes thinking, Who is that woman with The Suit? Is she playing with his hair? Oh my God, she's such a badass. He looks like some rich business executive, but Rocker Chick has her arm around him like he's her fucking bitch. I'll bet she has tattoos. And rides a motorcycle. And keeps a pair of brass knuckles in her vagina. — B.B. Easton

Mr. Winston and I had already discussed:
How what I'd done was vile and on par with kicking disabled kittens.
That I was on the path to becoming a criminal and likely would spend the rest of my life in jail giving myself homemade tattoos with a needle and Bic pen.
That the statue was a work of art, and would I dare to ear the arm off the Mona Lisa? He didn't think so.
That I was a disappointment to him, my family, my boyfriend, my fellow students, and likely all of Western civilization. — Eileen Cook

Four men walked from among the trees. All of them had their heads shaved. The one in the front, the Alpha, had a beard, dirty blond and full. He was the same size as the other two wolves, large and intimidating, moving with a grace he hadn't had before. The fourth man moved with them, smaller than the others, but his tattoos were as bright as they'd ever been, the raven fluttering on his arm. They — T.J. Klune