Writings, audio and photos you see here are mine unless stated otherwise.
My Bloody Muse by Jeremy Forbes is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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“Ever have one of those… those days?”
You know the kind.
You stir into blurry consciousness and stare at the ceiling and it just looks wrong. Your pillow whispers to you repeatedly that you didn’t get enough sleep and you should really stay here for another three hours.
And, hell’s bells, do you want to.
But you don’t because the system demands that you be at least semi-productive today. Gods forbid you have a weekday to yourself. And besides, the alarm clock has been buzzing for the past 45 minutes anyway.
So you wrench yourself forcibly from your bed, take a luke-warm shower because the damn water heater is on the fritz again, throw on clothes that you hate because you forgot to do laundry yesterday, get your things together (well, most of your things; on a day like this you will always, invariably forget something), rush out the door to your vehicle and thrust yourself hastily into today’s thirty-minute delay.
Oh, and did I mention that you only have 15 minutes left until your shift starts?
Yeah.
So, you arrive to work late and make some lame excuse to your asshole boss whom caught you trying to sneak in without being seen. He chews you out, which is a great way to prepare for the usual, daily shit-shoveling. On any normal day, you’d be able to handle the monotony, the automatons you call coworkers, your dick-faced manager and that godforsaken printer that seems to eat only your documents.
But this isn’t any normal day, remember?
You don’t want to deal with this crap. They couldn’t pay you enough. You just want to trash your workstation, slap your coworkers, tell your boss to eat a big bag of dicks, smash that fucking printer with a crowbar, go home and drink yourself into a stupor.
And by golly, you should.
But despite your natural urges to give your horrible situation exactly what it deserves, you maintain control and manage to do only just enough work to keep the boss off your ass.
The day crawls sluggishly onwards. Lunch time. Finally, a break. Except, you just remembered what it was you forgot on your way out the door:
Lunch. Fuck.
Your only salvation is a pop tart from the vending machine that you were lucky to find just enough change for after rifling through your desk for twenty minutes. Hey, it’s better than starving, right?
Your brief respite is ended and you drag your feet all the way back to your desk. The hours march on like prisoners of war: reluctant, but resolved lest they be skewered. Your blood sugar gets low and you begin to nod off. You snap awake just in time for the boss to stalk past your workstation and give you the eye. You excuse yourself to the restroom and lock yourself in the stall with your head in your hands.
Just one more hour, you pray. Please, just let me survive for just one more hour.
Maybe you punch the wall a few times on the way out of the restroom to keep yourself awake. Whatever, I’m not judging.
You make it through the last hour and rush to your vehicle just in time to thrust yourself back into rush hour traffic. You don’t even have the energy to be pissed at the dumb cunt what just cut you off because she was too busy sexting her boyfriend.
You don’t care anymore. You just want it to be over.
After another hour, you finally make it home and immediately dive head first into a bottle of whiskey. Or gin. Or vodka, whatever blows your skirt up. You spend the rest of the night drunkenly ignoring phone calls and watching whatever sex-and-violence filled movies happen to be on TV. And as your consciousness gradually fades, you think to yourself:
Tomorrow will be better.
It has to be.
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The Color of Insanity
A little taste of madness
To remind me what I’ve missed
Dances ‘cross my lips and tongue
And spreads from where you’ve kissed
“Give yourself to me,” you say
Or so your eyes bespeak
Cascades of your auburn hair
Redolence leaves me weak
I swore an oath beneath the stars
To all the gods above
To ne’er again want of your lust
Your discomposing love
And so, my dear, I find myself
An impasse quite profound
For tempting as your flesh may be
I must remain oath bound
My pleas of you for sanity
Fall mute upon your ear
I’m left with no recourse save one
A bitter path, I fear
And thus, with caustic tears I find
An ending to my strife
You’ve bereft me of my senses
I’ve bereft you of your life
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I has a sad.
Self-pity blogs really make me sad. The power is within you to better yourself whether you realize it or not. If you’re not happy, get up and do something about it. Posting depressing sayings and pictures doesn’t help. It only perpetuates the bad thoughts you’re having. Go out and see the sun, go for a walk, eat something healthy, read a good book, go see a good friend, do whatever you think might possibly make your day less miserable. Because if you don’t, you’re going to be miserable for the rest of your existence. No one wants that and if you think you do, you’re wrong.
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Goodbye
Let me guess, you’re a mess.
I can tell from that wrinkled dress,
Your smeared mascara and dusky eyes,
They counteract your vicious lies.
And while attracted, I must admit,
You are a habit that I must quit.
Inhaling you like cigarettes
Has left me so full of regrets.
So, please, spare me your fanciful fluff,
My patience has lapsed; I’ve had enough.
For, you may beg and plead and try,
But I’ve stopped listening; This is goodbye.
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Sweet Little Bullet
Echoes of you
Still ricochet off the walls of my mind
Like bullet fragments
Blaming you
Would be blaming the gun
When it was my finger on the trigger
All along
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Bipolar
Your highs skirted the troposphere.
Your lows scraped the grounds of hell.
Your love was a roller coaster.
Your scorn was a death sentence.
You clung to me and told me never to leave you.
You left me with my own devices to rot.
When faced with a choice,
I chose the middle ground.
You’d Hit It
Okay, it’s past my bedtime but it’s my birthday so fuck everything. I’m gonna share more stuffs what I have. This one actually happened…
—
“Yeah, you’d still hit it.”
The phrase came like a slap in the face. It made him stop in his tracks and roll the concept over in his brain. He wanted to reel around and scream at her, “Are you fucking kidding me? After pulling on my heartstrings like some sick puppeteer? After causing me to cut my own damn heart out and offer it to her on a silver platter, only to have her toss it to the rats? After somehow convincing me she still cared while she was still fucking, god only know how many other people? I’d sooner cut her face off and force her to live that way for the rest of her life so that the next poor shmuck sees how fucking ugly she is from the start. She’s done more than enough damage to my mind and my soul to let her sink her hooks into my brain and use me for a beast of burden like she did ever the fuck again, and don’t you DARE think otherwise.”
Sparing her the heated diatribe, however, he maintained his aloof facade and simply replied, “Eh, maybe. With a shovel.”