I wish you could have dealt
with my every gaping fathom;
I was a deep spring,
made deeper by the quaking,
shaking and shifting of old ground
as all labyrinthine beasts
skewed from their rest -
all intent on hell on earth.
You would reinforce me
and I could contain my demons.
But the lacking leads to fallen
chunks of rock and mortar,
meant to seal away the depths.
They've chewed the chains to surface,
and I've begun my sinking;
covered in dead algae and silt
settling at length across me:
I dine on passing bubbles,
observing all the fish.

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Truth to yourself

Lost in a world of thoughts
What I have sought
How I have fought
I got caught,
in this
in that,
I will not be bought.
Gotta face the fact
and watch my own back.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Not letting people/things get to me anymore.

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I can feel the fiery breeze envelop me into a sense of uplifting freedom.
It surrounds me with a jagged veil, protruding though my skin.
Sharply twisting deeper, it spins crimson with blood.
I fall.
I fall anxiously,
Throbbing with a bruise to my soul.
the gale spits flickers of consiousness into oblivion.
Crackling as if a squashed plastic cup,
the soul disapparates until it is but a fog of memories.

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Soccer Baby


Purple Filled Dreams
with the golden heart
One who places others first
One who shines bright with music
Simplicity is the key to her heart
A simple Orchard upon her hands
makes her smile in every way.
Paws control her life
Paws upon her heart, her wrists, her touch
No angel wings
but brings life to others in need.

Not a perfect girl
never plans to be
can not cook
can not judge a book by it's cover
Always willing to learn
willing to compromise
willing to love or eternaty
not always as stubborn as her sign tends to say
Taurus after all are hopeless romantics
they keep their friends as close as possible
and their enemies closer,
but she, she keeps that open heart
on her sleeves.

Curly hair.
Dark Brown eyes.
Light skinned.
and compassionate.
Soccer Baby,
she is me.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Have you ever had to discribe yourself to people? I have and I can't ever do so, this is probably the 8th poem I write about me... is it me? Maybe, only those who truely know can tell me.

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Washed by the bass dome,
cleansed by the iodine and sulfur chunks
that line the empty end of my cradle;
I'm branded with a constant sound
and a trillion scars forming code
that signals every downfall to come and collapse.
Taking in the coffee grounds
and loosening every dusty, jointed limb,
I began my caravan consisting of my aspects,
my glitches and my stores of hoarded remembrance.
I grew sick upon witness of my theorized demise.
Upon regaining conscious and grounded state of mind,
I awoke with all companion-selves to new gardens,
gates made of pearl and sweet molten silver.
I recognized this place as home and came down to my knees,
favoring the ground upon, my arrival had been welcomed.
I rose and gathered all my selves
and went to rest
beneath the many trees again.

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Cynic's Repertoire

This is the repertoire of a cynic.
His arsenal includes layered sheet
for which to hide beneath.
Where claws may be absent,
he possesses without boast, a hatchet,
for detachment, you see,
and the removal of things that weigh him down.
He does not bleed upon severance of limb,
only leaks faint whispers, half-plodded jokes;
a stump that should be crimson is bathed in sarcasm.
He sees his locality from a mapping satellite,
far above the clouds that bring fall spills.
The cluster of buildings, grids of grays and greens,
refute his loneliness, shout in his face,
"You should be fulfilled! Know who you're among!
The many thousands who all understand! Just be one of them!"
Cynics rarely turn to the chill of triggers;
of ice in their drinks that force their doubts away.
This is the method of a cynic,
who hates and blames himself, while all the while lashing
at anyone who refuses to decry him.
Cynics rarely wish for death.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

If only I could leave forever, without anyone ever noticing.

Rambling at Work

I'm comfortable today, though I am and have been starving since eight am. My morning slim shakes aren't doing the job anymore. Maybe there's food nearby? I haven't heard of any birthday celebrations today, but that doesn't mean there isn't something free to eat at a desk on the other side of the building, somewhere.

I managed to get a good walk in yesterday evening after departing from work. I've really lost my motivation to exercise as of late, so it felt good to get out there and move. Walking long distances always centers me. Whereas I used to simply walk the circular labrynthian neighborhoods all connected to my own home street back at my parent's house; since moving, I've ended up walking all of the hilliest and most unforgiving roads in terms of terrain and traffic that I can find. It makes for a much better workout, though it also runs the risk of allowing people to throw shit at you, which happens more often than I would prefer. I've been hit directly in the back of the neck with a quarter, which, while painful, I had to hand it to whoever threw it: it was a damn good shot, especially out of the window of a moving car. I've also been hit, dead on, full force, in the crotch by a cup of ice. Once again, this was from a moving car. That one was also a pretty good shot, and it took every ounce of my will to stop from slowing my pace. It hurt really, really bad.

I walk for many miles, generally stoned if at all possible, and with my headphones on. That beautiful sensation of making progress, of making headway and of just getting somewhere, anywhere, is probably what I love most about my walks. In my day to day life, there is a stagnancy. I'm not unique in this regard by any means, but it's still torturous, especially on my bad days. I've always been the type of person that desires purpose, and I've yet to find one that's lasted. There was a time when I felt that my purpose in life was to eventually become a professional artist, but I've bypassed that, and these days I hardly do any drawing at all. After that, I was sure that my purpose in life centered around Emily, and keeping her happy and at my side. After she left, and I had my uproarious identity crisis which turned me from a fat, mostly-jovial and exceptionally kind teenager into a thin, cynical and stoic asshole of a young adult, I was completely at a loss, dropping out of a college and taking on a full-time job just to prevent myself from dwelling on my sorrows in my free time.

After becoming a college drop-out (the first time) things only got worse and more out-of-control. Upon my return from Columbus, I knew that there was really nowhere to go and nothing to pursue. I had no goals besides getting weed, staying high and hopefully, somewhere in the midst of that, finding a girl that will stick around this time. A dozen failures and another ruined relationship later, I was worse off than when I had started, completely broke and at a point where suicide sounded logical rather than drastic. But I'm a dramatic and emotional young man, and in time I weathered that storm. These thoughts do crop up from time to time though, even now. Despite my good job, my friends, my family; none of it matters to me apparently, though it is what keeps me going. I want something more.

I have a habit of constantly checking things where people may be trying to get a hold of me. Whether it be my e-mail, my Facebook, my cell phone or this site itself; I'm always glancing when I have a spare moment, hoping for a word from... Someone. I'm not sure why, nor am I sure what exactly it is that I'm waiting for. Just... Contact. I suppose it's just my conscious/subconscious desire to be wanted and sought out manifesting itself. As if one, beautiful day, I'll open a new tab on my internet browser and take a peek at my e-mail; there, I will find a long, wordy, unabashedly DESPERATE message from someone, maybe Kathleen, telling me that they want me, they NEED me, they're IN LOVE with me and they can't go another day without me at their side. Suddenly, all of this chaos that reigns above my head and keeps me held firmly at bay will disperse, and I will rise, oh yes, RISE into the heavens and become, at long last, a happy and fulfilled person.

Stupid, right?

It's a stupid habit to have, one that I should be taking active steps to rid myself of. But I suppose there isn't any real harm in it. If I take some simple delight in doing so, why not take a moment to make a wish and then see if my wish came true? I've had wishes come true before. As cheesy as it sounds, Emily coming into my life was a wish that came true. I was lonely and had been single for some time, and every day I wished to find love. Suddenly, love came, in the form of a beautiful Italian girl that was so far out of my league that I was legitimately confused when our time together began so quickly. And we worked, for a long time. So maybe that will happen again. Who can say? I may be having absolutely terrible luck with women right now, but hopefully it won't last.

I've felt the sobering sting of rejection far too much in the past year. It's been a brutal time to be alive in many ways, and I'm glad that things have gotten so much better, at least financially-speaking. But still, I am alone. My solitude may be what's best for me right now, but that sure as hell doesn't mean I have to like it. I haven't the faintest idea how to stand out to all of the lovely, captivating women out there. The longer I go unnoticed, the worse I tend to think of myself. That isn't fair or even really sensible, but it's not something I have much influence over. I like to think that some day, I'll be able to properly judge my own self-worth, without taking into account shallow occurances such as a girl that eyes me up and down or the vague, half-informed opinions she may have about me based on my appearance. But if the entirety of my life up until this point is any sort of indicator, then I will likely be this way forever. Unfortunate, but it's hard to do combat with who you are at your core.

It's fun to look back on my time with Emily at this point. I miss all of the warmth that accompanied it, and it's nice to reflect on all of the good times. Megan and I never had a relationship like that. Ours was a relationship built around sex, strain and intoxication. I don't really know if I regret the time I spent with her. It lead to nothing besides conflict, with her and with friends that knew her, and I suppose in that regard, I do wish we had been wise with whom we chose to lay with. I also missed a few chances with other girls while Megan was around, but I doubt any of those paths would have lead anywhere relevant.

Really, I wish I had been better to Megan. I wish so distraught all of the time, and I allowed my patience with her to wittle down to absolutely nothing. Never in my life have I argued with someone so often and so fiercely. I have never been one to raise my voice to anyone, even out of anger, but Megan simply brought it out of me like no other girl ever could. We were an extremely physical couple, wrestling often, fucking constantly and always playfully pushing each other around. We never actually raised our fists against one-another of course, but at times, I wasn't exactly sure how long it would be before Megan straight up threw a punch at me. I'd deserve it too. She was unreasonable and obnoxious more often than not, but she was also exceedingly sweet and understanding of my mood swings. She deserved much, much better than what I gave to her. Despite all of that, she still considered me one of the sweetest boyfriends she had ever had. That's so sad, and so unfair.

I managed to further ruin things between Megan and I when I drunkenly tried to get a booty call out of her a few months back. Certainly not one of my finer moments, but considering that she left me and immediately slept with that piece-of-shit that she's always hanging around, I honestly thought it was a plausible attempt (at the time). I regret that, of course, but I think in the end it may have been best to simply remove myself from Megan's life entirely. That's another thing that this last year has been about: the removal of those who are bad for my mental health. That's not to say that I've purged a large amount of my social circle; it really only applies to a small handful of people. But I'm glad to have done away with them, and I'm glad that the splash of their waves of melodrama is no longer able to reach me.

At this point, I'm not entirely sure what I was supposed to be talking about. I'm just practicing a form of writing that isn't poetry. Work with me here.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Neat new layout.

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Back Log Prose

I powered on my computer and waited impatiently for the login screen to appear. The desktop was running slower than it generally does, which cost me a few minutes before I was able to clock-in, but I was a half-an-hour early so it's not like it mattered. The Cincinnati skyscrapers loomed in the distance, catching the orange light of the sunrise which gave them a drastic contrast against the thick, grey clouds that retreated into the morning behind them.

It's the start of another work week at Southwest.

Much of the time, I'm not actually working when I'm at the office. I get enough done so that nobody asks any questions about my production, but more often than not, when I appear to be diligently typing figures into a valuation, I'm actually writing something for myself. When I appear to be deeply involved in an investigation that will hopefully yield some comparable sales to be used, I'm probably reading something completely unrelated to work altogether. If anybody knows, they obviously don't care. I get about thirty valuations done a day, which I'm told is a lot, all the while keeping my mind occupied with other things, listening to music and occasionally wandering off just so that I can look at something that isn't a flat-screen monitor for a moment. Some times I'll e-mail my friend Melissa, usually only if I find something funny about a borrower's name, or if the name of the town I'm working on in North Carolina is something perverted like Climax or Cumming (both of those are real towns, though I can't remember which states they're in).

I do enjoy my job, and I want to succeed at it. Though I do goof off, I am sure to not allow myself to slack so far that my work actually suffers. I think that if I were to completely cut myself off from any and all distractions, that my work wouldn't really improve as I would become frustrated much more often, which, in turn, would make me more likely to half-ass a valuation in order to get it out of my queue.

Maybe I'm just making excuses so that I can keep writing whatever this is that I'm writing at the moment.

Anyway, it was an eventful, drunken weekend. I look back on it fondly, but it also has brought something kind of serious to my attention: I have to stop hanging around my buddy Kevin when we go out to bars. Unless I am the only boy my age in the room, girls almost never notice me. I must have a way of blending into my surroundings. I don't do it intentionally; more than anything else, I want women to take notice of my presence, and to be interested. But when Kevin's around, everything gets worse. The man is over six feet tall, has black hair and dark skin, is in good shape, and man, all of the ladies just lose their shit over him. He never acts on anything, which somehow makes it all the more frustrating, but regardless of his complacency, women absolutely fawn over him. I hate that I have jealousy issues at all, but what can I do? Even Emily, the one-time love of my life, told me point blank, to my fucking face, that Kevin is better looking than I am. I don't know if you've ever experienced that, having the girl that you loved more than anything or anyone else tell you that one of your best friends is more attractive to her than you, but I can tell you from my own firsthand experience that it will fucking ruin you, at least for a while. Hell, it seems like it partially ruined me for good; I can't seem to shake the thought of it no matter what, and even now, it's proving to be completely true.

Do you think I sound shallow, talking exclusively about looks and outer-appearances rather than a person's personality or intelligence? You may not believe me, but these are beliefs that I have acquired and learned quite recently. I mean, I've always been told by friends and family that I'm a really handsome, attractive guy. But people that are close to you certainly aren't going to say that you're ugly as sin, nor will they let it slip that you're simply average unless you beat it out of them. So it must be true then, that my looks are just not good enough to stand out in a crowd, and therefore, I am the constant, accidental chameleon, blurring into the muddled colors of the walls that I lean against.

And here I thought that I'd managed to improve myself enough to warrant a few admiring glances from across the room. But I suppose not. And clearly, that means that I need to acquire fame and fortune as soon as possible. I mean shit, I already have an office job, a decent wardrobe and a nice car, and yet I still cannot get any women to appreciate me on a shallow level, which is the ONLY LEVEL that seems to fucking matter at this point. Girls will let me know man, they will fucking let me know when they aren't interested, and it's always just because I don't look how they'd like me to look. I'm always myself, I'm always kind, I'm never creepy and I never come on too strong. I'm just not good enough to be considered, and as far as I can gather, it's just because of the fact that I don't stand out.

But vast wealth and my name on a Wikipedia page would earn me some admiration no matter what, wouldn't it? Sure, much of it would be completely false or based upon something unstable and ultimately fake, but what does it matter? I'd take it where I could get it, and move on, just like everyone else seems so able to do even now. Maybe if I ever get around to writing my book, I'll get lucky and it'll sell. Then I'll be a published writer, and people will have to take notice of me for something. Women would flock to me because of my "depth" and my "talent" despite the fact that I'm pretty sure Larry the Cable Guy had a best selling autobiography out a while back. Then, afterwards, I can focus on releasing my poetry and continue working on other books. Life will good and complete, and I may, finally and at long last, feel this "contentment" I've heard so much about recently.

On the flip side, if my life were to end tomorrow and I saw it coming somehow, I think I'd be ready. I'd be more than ready; I'd welcome it with open arms and I would happily say goodbye to my friends and family, as this death that comes to embrace me was not a choice that I have made, but rather a choice the fates have made for me. And I'm sure they would be sad, and probably a bit confused by my reaction to my own impending doom, but whatever. Regardless of the cause or any plausible solutions, being constantly unhappy for years is really, really difficult. Thoughts of suicide aside, I still fear death somehow. The thought of being struck by lightning while caught in a terrible storm is oddly terrifying to me some times, despite the unlikelihood.

I think it's clear that I know nothing about what I want in this life.

Well, no. I want love.

It's all very confusing.

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When You're Lonely (A Rant)

On the subject of love and loneliness, I cannot and will not speak for any of the women in my life or outside of it, nor can I really speak for any other members of my own gender. People like to generalize on issues that involve romance or heartache. I am aware that any and all issues vary wildly from person to person, and I wish to preface this post with that fact. This is me, and my experiences, and my feelings. If you don't care to know, don't continue reading.

I've been single for close to another year of my life, and while this period of time was unsolicited, unwanted and thoroughly reviled all the while, it has helped me to get to know myself better than I think I ever have before. Shortly after becoming single and suddenly finding myself alone in my apartment, I was disturbingly close to completely losing the last sad bit of good fortune I had going for me. I was working part-time at a print shop, only getting a few hours a day because the place didn't really need me. My old boss was doing me a favor, which I appreciated greatly, but it was doing very little good to pull me from my emotional and financial slump. I was constantly borrowing money or putting off paying rent, I never had any cash in order to enjoy myself outside of the house besides going out to eat here or there and the entire time, I was so miserable and bitter that the only thing that could take the edge off was marijuana. I constantly had a small pocket of money which I maintained exclusively so that I could buy and sell, making me essentially able to smoke for free. It was the only thing keeping me going, and the only thing I felt I had to look forward to.

Finally, one day, the implications of my current lifestyle finally, truly caught up with me. I realized that no matter what, I would have to give up my beloved habit so that I could return to being a truly functioning member of society again. I quit cold turkey and set out to find myself a better source of income. During this time of sobriety, I reached a level of stagnant misery that I was only vaguely aware was possible. I know what it is to be emotionally devastated, to be hurt beyond all measure of what you thought you were capable of withstanding, but I had no idea how angry and sullen a person could be, and all of that negativity had nowhere to go. The sad state of my finances, my love life and my mental health was entirely my fault, and I knew it. The great, pulsing mass of that black, vile cloud that hung over me could do nothing but return to the source, and all of my hatred and anger was directed inward. For the first and so far, only time in my life, I honestly considered suicide. If my thoughts were left unoccupied for any length of time, they would inevitably turn into thoughts of my demise. It was alarming even to me at first, but over time the idea itself actually became comforting, as if it was the only logical outcome to the absolute failure that I had allowed myself to become. There wasn't anyone I could talk to about it that wouldn't react one of two ways: with panic or with apathy. Some, such as members of my family, would absolutely lose their shit if I were to tell them that I was considering such an act, and it would have only lead to me feeling guilty, weak and irresponsible for even bringing it up. Others may have only put up a front of feeble concern, all while thinking "Yeah, whatever. You're just looking for attention.". In a way, I suppose I was, but that didn't make my feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing any less genuine. I was scared, and wanted help so desperately, but it simply felt like there was nothing I could do but persevere.

At last, I was able to obtain a real job, with real benefits and decent pay at a company downtown that's only about fifteen minutes away from my place. Things began to take a turn for the better, and now I'm able to afford my apartment, my bills and I'm even able to have a little fun on the side. My family helped me to get a good, business-casual wardrobe put together, and in six short months I was permanently employed and working my ass off every day of the work week. Yet, some of these feelings still linger, and some of them have even grown worse as I've journeyed forward and fought to be noticed by members of the fairer sex.

Don't get me wrong when I say that: my life is so much better than it was at the beginning of this year that it's hard to believe I ever even allowed myself to get so far below the surface of the ideal. But it's also given me perspective on so many things that I had never really considered before, and I suppose it's all there to let me realize that I'm an adult now, and I have to take care of myself and keep my priorities in line if I want anything to work out at all.

I started working out for months, desperate for someone to notice; desperate for the approval of some stranger out there so that I could finally have real love in my life again. More than anything else, since the moment my ex walked out that door, I wanted genuine, true love. In my last relationship, I was doing constant battle with myself and my emotions. My parent's wacky divorce, my moving back home from Columbus and my lack of any direction in life tortured me constantly, and it was at this point that my love affair with marijuana truly began. My girlfriend and I smoked daily, buying and selling weed to keep it cheap and constantly in stock. I fully believe it was one of the only things keeping us together. We were wrong for each other from the very start, but we were both lonely, and though I can't speak for her in this regard, I was terrified that I was never going to find anyone else. When I returned from Columbus, I immediately sought her out, because an old friend had told me before moving that she had had her eye on me. She was attractive and available, so I ran with it without a single thought. And we stayed together for close to a year, running headlong through the arguments, the lack of shared interests, the differing opinions on fucking EVERYTHING and in general, the blatant absence of compatibility between us as people.

She loved me, and in time I came to love her as well. Despite that, things escalated and then fell apart quickly. In reality we never should have tried, but what can you tell yourself at the time? You can only hope to God that you can push through the bad and dig your way to the good, if there was any good to be found at all. Even now, I still miss her, but I know exactly why. It's because I'm lonely.

Since her departure, girls have come and gone. Nothing truly significant has happened involving the opposite sex, and despite my efforts, I seem to be having a lot of issues meeting anyone that takes any interest in me. The feeling is mutual, as most girls I encounter are boring, bitchy or otherwise unpleasant in some way. Many of them often seem fake to me, but I think that's also due to an abundance of paranoia and disillusionment that weighs me down as a result of all of the dramatic flak I've had to endure over this past year. For all I know, I may be single for close to half a decade yet again.

Each year spent single is wasted time to me. While I have proven beyond any doubt that I am perfectly capable of surviving without a significant other, I simply must admit to myself that my overall goal in life is to find love. I have little to no aspirations and am the most unambitious person I know. I would love to be a published writer some day and I would love to write my book before I drop dead, but these are secondary dreams. I want true, genuine love; more than anything else in this world, that is what I want. I want to find a girl that is beautiful, fascinating, sweet, honest and artistic. I want her to feel the same way about me, and I want us to spend our lives together, helping each other to achieve greater and greater things, all the while comforting each other and growing closer as the days, months and years trickle by at an ever-increasing pace. I want to find the love of my life before I grow too old, because I fear by that time I may be too bitter and far gone from my original self to matter much to anyone. I feel myself growing angrier, more confused and more frustrated with the world with each passing day, and I worry that I am so far departed from who I was at a younger age that I can no longer even identify with myself. I don't want to be hollowed out and unpleasant that I drive all of the people that matter to me away, but I don't know how to stop the process. With each rejection, each failed attempt, I grow more distant and careless.

My friends and I refer to this phenomenon as entering "Don't Give a Fuck Mode". When life has beaten you down consistently and you find yourself entirely fed up and sick of everything and everyone, you acquire a certain boldness. You become more reckless, more willing to take risks, less wary of consequence and more likely to do something that you'll probably regret later on. Once your "Give a Fuck Meter" has depleted, either completely or almost completely, you are more likely to get shit-faced and hit on a woman, and you are also more likely to tell her that she's got a great rack and then vomit all over her high heels. It's intoxicating and hilarious, but it serves little to no purpose other than allowing you to lash out at the world that has wronged you without worry of repercussions. I've been there for a little while now, and though I have yet to puke on anybody in public, I did have a fairly consistent black out streak and I'm now spending something close to a hundred dollars on weed per month. Am I concerned about this? Slightly, yes, but as long as I don't go completely broke, it's really hard to bother slowing down. It keeps me happy and picks up the slack where my anti-depressants falter. How can I argue with such results?

There wasn't much of a purpose for meandering rant such as this, besides an empty attempt at passing the time and making myself feel a little better. Rob Ventre, the stupid, constantly depressed asshole who always has problems and never has solutions. I have always feared that I will be like this for the entirety of my life, and by now, I am absolutely certain of it. This is who I am and what I am: unhappy, and always at odds with myself. It's likely a crossed wire somewhere in my head, which means it'll never be fixed. And I just have to deal with that, forever. Here's hoping I can endure without biting down on a gun barrel.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Apologies for this. I wanted to put it on my Tumblr, but I think that would just alarm a few friends of mine. If you bothered to read some or all of it, thanks. It's nice to know that I've been able to "say" all of this to anybody at all.

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