I always feel as if i'm becoming unwell again.

Like i'm sinking into the sand and its blinding my eyes and stopping me breathe. 

I remember when everything was really foggy and then I ate this food and everything seamed clear and beautiful and starry filled with basil leaves and chili oil.

Jersey, Channel Islands.

(Imagine a dull faced orphan looking out of this window)

I find my days sat in a courtyard filled with overactive people buying chocolate bars to keep energized for their over active lives and wishing I was at home playing with my rodent.

Today I was talking to my boyfriend, I guess he's more of a life long companion than my boyfriend which I prefer. I gave him an old pocket watch I stumbled across when I was searching through my old bedroom for some form of memories. He made it tick. I was trying to explain to him the way I saw things. I saw the watch as a metal capsule of memories and events, how it had come to me was through me buying it in a baked bean smelling, musty second hand shop. I bought that watch with so many other memories combined within it. The history of that watch must swirl within it like some hidden fog I can never see and understand. He saw it logical almost like a GCSE maths lesson. I liked this because he saw the cogs and clockwork and somehow made it work again, combining both the history of what I thought about the watch and the mechanisms itself.

I want to fill my guts with nourishing food until they burst and explode and I become a better, richer and more fulfilled person but all I eat is this cafe grease filled sponge.

I'm debating with the fact of still posting on this morbid web page. I have deleted all other blogs that may of been fooling people of what I really am and I find myself left with this blogspot in which I started writing when I was clinically depressed.
I would like to warn, the small amount of people who still see me as "insectsoldiers" that this may be slightly different now.
I decided to leave the depths of my bedroom and go out and deceive and lie and smile.
This again will be an ongoing diary of my life and the events surrounding. This blog will be the cement core of all the stories and irrational thoughts that gallop through my head like stags. This will most likely be the closest you can get to me.

#4

My claustrophobic hope captured in a bag

made of synthetic plastic

tangible perceptible as ineficent as a broken bone

or a toxic tumour to be cured

for the bag to leave.

To be caught in some ariel

some twisted tortured telephone line

dangling unwillingly.as ripped paper

on a cold cement wall

A heard of butterflies lolling behind

like sequins in an enveloment of putrid air

following the bloated bag

until a nebulous barrier

strikes

and creates strawberry stains

on a once crisp substance

and creates strawberry stains

on a once crisp substance

#3

.A bridge of salty rock so itchy

At the sides of the lurid valley

And toes as cockroaches were curling

Creeping on the acidic soil.

A board of skin and bone

A board for you to tip-toe

Across and keep dry.

#2

Banished with your encapsulating words,
Stabbing and thriving.
Burn of the Savannah
I feel the sand scolding
Embedding in the skin.

Your eyes fry me
Body crackles

Twisting and curdling.
A collision of mind with my china skull.
Crushing against the side,
Squished.

Boot to mouth
Bloody pearls thrown
Hold them in your hand
and make that necklace you wanted
Savour your work.

#1

Not posted for so long, but I have been working on a collection of poetry.

#1

Eyes concealed,
The tiny cracks in mud,
Would resemble clearly,
The drout of my eyes.

Balanced colossal posture,
Purified squarks of speech.
A songbird would leap,
My happiness would not follow.

Water boiling.
No heat from steam.
Pouring.
Now weeping.

Scratching,
Seething,
Energy soaring.
My bubonic head collapses and falls.
Grind my teeth and quit.

This is because I think my mother is the most beautiful person in the world.

Sometimes I can even feel my sadness internally. It sinks through from my throbbing head shooting to the bottom of my finger tips. A numb feeling remains. Not the ordinary kind of numb. A numbness that craves to be touched, a stroke of a finger or something to grab on to. I tried grabbing an ice cube today, I clutched it with nearly devoted hands loving it until it melted. My fingers dripped yet no throbbing cold sensation persisted. I can feel it in my chest. A horse bounding through my ribcage and charging into my heart causing the vulgar fluttery feeling like one who's mourning over their cheating husband or their lack of sanity.

Occasionally I look so dead a vulture could come snatch me up and take me to his lover.

I keep baking to try stop me from sinking. Maybe pounding egg and flour together and watching it rise is a doe like form might prevent these thoughts i'm getting. Sometimes I think people can taste the thoughts when I give them a slice of cake or bread, it probably tastes bitter, in fact i'm sure it does.

Recently I've wanted to be free. Free from myself. Free from the overpowering senses I have to endure, free of people, free of owning land. Most importantly, free of mutual possessions.

It is no joke. Sometimes I wish I could sleep, although our sleep is neither free or peaceful. Be your dreams scary or great you will have to wake from your paradise/nightmare at some point. Of course you will remain captured. You are captured within the bubble which is your body. I never seem to break free from my head, never mind the bubble.

I wish I could capture the pretty light in public toilets and inject it into my eyes, maybe then I might look less like the dead.

I have decided the most beautful people live in the most ugliest places.

When I say I love you I mean it.

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Published with Blogger-droid v1.4.8

I FEEL LIKE I'M ROTTING.

I haven't written much in a while and I decided that needed to change. I've discovered the sense of freedom I get of getting a bus, choosing the time and arriving at a place. It's scary how the most simplest things can help me feel less horrid.
I love my grandma I love my grandma I love my grandma.

I'm sorry grandma.

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I decided to dye my hair to my mothers horror. All will be fine in the next life.

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Throw a ball in the sky watch it hang call it moon.
Spit and smear,
Call them clouds and enjoy the rain.
Grab the lightness from beating hearts,
Splatter it over blue and call it sun.
Take away the sun and endure darkness.
Accept darkness.
Accept poverty.
Accept starvation.
Accept the painting.

Just pictures, terrible pictures.

I don't know who I am, I guess that is OK.

My name is Jasmine Greenfield, and I am real.

When I define real I will believe myself.

"I like your thoughts, they remind me of a ball of wool, you slowly have to untangle each thread to see the final product. I don't like it when you say you want to die. It reminds me of an egg smashing. It's unfixable and the yolk that could of developed is a useless gloopy fluid on the floor."

I attempt to say this in the mirror 2x a day.

Mother I think...
I want to smash a glass house,
and watch each fragment spray into the air.
As easy as deodorant from a can it stays
Clinging to your skin so fare.

Mother think...
Tree roots impale the corpses and the forgotten,
they gain nutrients in their dirty bed.
So glass can stay there is skin to give.
"Stand straight. Book on your head. "

Daughter I think...
Do what your mother tells you.
Don't smash glass houses.
Composure is important. Stand straight.
Enjoy your isolation and disclosure.

You always were a wicked child,

Let your mood flow away like an icy tide.

Recently i've been finding it hard to put into words how I am feeling, so therefore I created a video of day to day things. I don't care if you don't like it. Dedications go to Charlie the cat who was extremely persistant that I made it in black and white to explore the colour of his eyes.

My friend told me you need an average of three hours sleep a night to stay "sane".
I know this has been discussed a lot but I find it hard to empathise with those are "sane" in general.
I don't know if he is classed as a friend, I always doubt whether the affection I show for others is good enough for them to gain a simplest bond with them.

I am currently in hospital.
Inspiration should be under my feet but sadly the psychiotrist disturbs my photo taking and erratic writing.

You're getting better.

My writing skills are slithering down the drain like vomit.

Maybe my physical apearance is improving. I'm not functioning.

It has taken me half an hour to write these few lines. Sometimes it's hard to write my own name on a piece of paper.

There are too many things to analyze and to focus on.

My priorities are disfigured like a dislocated wrist.

I just sleep.

People say sleep is good, but it isn't when it's all you do.

My head was a tree, from branch to branch thoughts accumulated and helped each other to grow and expand. The tree wasn't growing nourishing fruit, it was growing poisonous berries filled with guilt. I ate them to the point where I'd beg myself for forgiveness and never give myself the satisfaction.

worthless
appetite
withdrawn
guilty
helpless
hopeless
knot
tired
fatigued
insomnia
social
treatment
safety
function

I am incapable of leading a normal life.

I have closed my eyes to the sun so often that my eyelids should be burnt to a crisp.

Throughout my years there has always been some sort of light at the end of the tunnel, whether it be bleak and hardly recongisable, or just a twinkle of something. Now there isn't that. I am walking in the dark.

The sea is eroding the island as much as my thoughts are eroding my mind.

EVERYTHING IS A FOG SCREEN.

EVERYTHING IS ERODING.

EVERYTHING IS COMPOUNDING.

I FEEL LIKE RECYCLED PLASTIC.