Meaning

Consciousness flows like the names of most ghosts I know. Caught between the mystery and the fact they're right in front of me, glaringly reciting all the times I wasn't ready or so willingly unsteady on the path that I was heading down, or letting down my friends by ending things on terms like "settling". For something more than apple cores, all the body blown away with bites my greedy face had laid like fingers to an autolaithe. So...

So I am always terrified of phrases like "you never tried", when pushed against the things I did are pictures of a star-eyed kid who waves a finger in between two open eyes and all the sheen... Which painted on the surface leans more towards hoarded magazines than paper-shredder better means that deconstruct society and stomp back from the balcony to suck water between the faucets. Who rope their ghosts like prairie tropes, stack skeletons in neighbor's closets

Escapist acts my brash attention seeking apparatus called a small and creaking throat provides won't hide the fact that I turned my back on everything and everyone in times of trying practiced slumps of bodies up against a wall or sense of self sighed "fuck-it-alls". Fix the meter; don't demean her, honest hands won't lift those boulders, shoulders strained with weight of good and shouldn't-do-it gifts of drifting senses that might not exist when next the crooked crucifix of what you miss is split between the ridge of your nose, planted deep

I know it means something now
Will it still in a year?
I've been eating so well off of these chauvinistic fears

I want to sleep on different sheets in different beds each night
So after forty weeks I feel what my bed is like
If I can't keep you out, I might as well let you in
I write this mess of existence, and still miss your skin