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Similar Deviations
Let me put you to bed tonight
and enfold you in these arms of mine.
Together we can while away the moonlight
as long as I stay by your side.
Listen to me and close your eyes,
sweet dreams are my promise;
this is your lullaby.
Written at work thinking of someone. It's the little things and simple thoughts that people can inspire.

I am fully aware of the way promise is supposed to be pronounced. It should be said the right way but there is a specific way to sing it that makes it fit without changing the way the word is to be pronounced. This, for the people who know at a glance that it wouldn't rhyme. It wasn't meant to. There is a different beat that is stressed.
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I'm trying to apologize for the damage I've done.
I'm trying to apologize for the man I've become.
Because I stand with my feet in a bloody mess,
I'm undeserving of your sweet forgiveness. 
You wonder if I take pleasure in this savage game,
Or if I play for any possible gain. 
But I promise, all I wanted was for you to be happy. 
Some of my sweetest memories are of you laughing. 

You wanted to find out why I was leaving.
You wanted to find out if my promises ever had meaning. 
I always said what you wanted to hear,
Just to make you want to stay near. 
Whether I felt that way or not is a mystery to ponder,
That is, if you care now that "we" are no longer. 
Now there is only one thing left for me to say,
And that's that I hope you find a man that'll stay. 
I hope that he will actually earn your love.
Ugh.... I finally finished writing this after I had to break up with a girl a few weeks ago. But now that over and I have been more than ready to get on with my life.
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"Why doesn't my picture have more favorites?" "Why did they give them a DD but not me?" "Why won't anyone comment on my photo?" "Why do I have so few watchers?"

Everyone has asked themselves these questions one time or another. It's the thing we all desire here on DeviantART: Popularity.

When you make a wonderful piece of fanart that you're extremely proud of, but no one cares to tell you what a good job you did. When you pour your heart out in a flowing piece of poetry, but no one sympathizes with you. It's happened to all of us.

Here are my tips and guidelines on popularity!


How can people admire your work if they never see it? Simple: they can't. The solution to this is to join groups. Maybe one, maybe two, maybe over three-hundred. Find groups that will show off your art for all of DeviantART to see!

However, it's best you only join active groups. Some groups will simply accept your art, and that will be it. They won't hold contests, or have features, or news updates, or challenges to get your creativity flowing. You can still join and submit to groups like this, but also join groups that have lots of activities!

Submitting to groups will get your art "out of the house", as it were. It will help spread the word.

Artist's Comments

Just putting a "." in the artist's comments may work for some people, but that doesn't mean it will work for you.

If you're new and you don't have many comments on your art, leaving the description blank isn't going to change that. Show people that you're friendly! Show them that you appreciate their feedback. Politely ask for critique in the artist's comments. If you ask questions about your art, people will want to answer.

But don't just say, "What do you guys think?". Be specific!

Here are some good questions to put in your artist's comments:

- "What do you think of  (character's name here)   personality?"

- "Does the pose in this picture look natural or casual?"

- "Does the photo need more or less emphasis on the background?"

What Goes Around, Comes Around

Feedback goes both ways. If someone is kind enough to comment on your work, don't try and play it cool by not replying. Say thank you!

You don't have to tell everyone "Thanks for the fav!", but you can visit their profile and give them a llama. If you like their art, go ahead and watch them! If they give you a llama, give one back (they are free, after all).

Remember, your art isn't the only art out there. Favorite things you like, comment on other people's work, congratulate them on their Daily Deviations, etc. Be social and friendly; if you find someone who's a new member, welcome them. Make some friends! And, if you see art you really like, suggest it to one of the CV's (Community Volunteers) as a Daily Deviation.

What Really Matters

One thing you must never, ever, forget is this: Popularity isn't everything. Only having three watchers/friends who give you good, constructive criticism to help you improve is better than having fifty watchers who never say anything.

Don't drop everything just so you can get more favorites on you're art. Don't try and be someone you're not just so people will like you more.


If you're really in a slump, try making a guide or a tutorial about something you have experience with.

Who knows? You might become famous overnight!

Yours truly,


Hope this helps some! These steps do not guarantee overnight fame, though. ;)

:bulletblue: Don't know how to suggest DD's? Check out this tutorial by SylwiaTelari

:bulletblue: Need more tutorials/guides? Check out MissLunaRose's Writing Resources

A Guide to Popularity (c) :icontruthistruth:
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I looked up 'protection' in the dictionary.
It said, "a person or thing that prevents someone or something from harm or injury".

I read a story that same day.
'A guy and his girlfriend were speeding down a highway on his motorcycle. The girl was getting scared and asked him to slow down. He said he would, but only if she put his helmet on her head, hugged him tightly and told him that she loved him. She did. It was in the paper that day that they had gotten into a crash because his brakes weren't working.' His actions saved her life. He protected her.
'But why?' was all I could think. I didn't get it.

Just a bit latter, my step dad came home.
He's abusive to my mother, but we have no other way to live.
He was very drunk and they started fighting. I heard them in the kitchen. I heard her scream and ran to try and help, but she just pushed me away and told me to run. Just run as fast and hard as I could.
She was crying and blood was running down her face. He grabbed a knife. I turned with tiers filling my eyes.
'Why?' was all that filled my mind as I ran to my girlfriend's house, miles away.

When I got there, I tried to speak, but couldn't. I didn't have to though. One look at my face and she knew.
She brought me in and sat me on the couch and held me while she called the cops. I felt like such a wimp.

After that, her parents let me sleep in their living room for the next few days. I had no where else to go.

It was the next Saturday night, she and I were walking home from the park when she didn't see it coming. A car sped round the corner, not looking where it was going; she was just ahead of me, in the middle of the street.
I yelled her name and ran to push her out of the way. I had succeeded in saving her but I had been hit by the car.
She ran to my side as it sped off.
"what! No, why! Why, you jerk, why'd you save me!!!"
She could see I was going to die, just as I could feel it.
Tears were streaming out of her eyes.
I used all the strength left in my body trying to wipe them away.
In my last breath I was able to weez,
"It was love. I love you Coraline."

The answer. It was love.
:D I did it! So earlier I asked for requests and :iconpikminpedia: asked that I do something having to do with the word 'protection'. I've been thinking and thinking and just couldn't come up with anthing that'd actuall come out good enough. So, I finall came up with this and I think it's a lot better than an of m other ideas would have been. (10/8/11)
^^ Enjoy!!!
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you've came so far but what have you learned?

you taught me how to save myself so I wouldn't have to return

I want you to be damn sure you won't get hurt,you won't get burned

I can't always be there when your love is adjourned

take the time to learn how to stay protected

and learn to love again and forever cherish it
couldn't decide on the tittle so its either love is adjourned or cherish it...
now i'm just making little snippets of poems that i might eventually use in a song...i always come up with some good lines but can never use them in an entire song so i'm saving some ideas that i might use in the future
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Life is the wheel ever turning
Making the hours go by fast
Though some days drag with yearning,
Life is the wheel.

This wheel is neither slow nor fast
It moves on with change it brings
Always changes in futures cast.

Mundane routines help our learning
Though even these must change at last
For new events that are occurring
Life is the wheel.

Kathy J Anderson, All Rights Reserved
Roundel form poem. First attempt at this form for me.

I must correct for those who don't know that the art I posted with my poem is not mine. If you know the artist I would love to give credit where it is due. Thank you.

The only thing I do know about the wheel art is that it is Celtic designed, traditional Celtic art, to be sure. ;)

IF you are going to download this you must notify me who you are. If not, then please don't make me track you down. Funny, we can't actually do that so who knows who is downloading stuff on DA?! I find this unsatisfactory. Please respect my rights.
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        i wake up to a
        beautiful morning.
        the trees are dancing
        to the melody of
        the sunset and you
        are the only one
        that crosses my


i want to bury my-
self and fall in love
with your smile.
the tone of your
voice, the scent
of your soul, the
taste of your skin
the blood that
keeps me
this noticeable
feeling you
send me
whenever you are near me,
whenever you are breathing.
you are waiting.


        follow the depths of love;
        the visions of love.

        these gorgeous flowers
        the smell of paradise,
        the touch of summer,
        the chills of winter,
        love blooms in spring.

        new formations - negative
        parabolas, slope equations,
        distant formulas, quadratic
        equations -- circulates
        the pupils of your

i have done the math.


replicate these
dreams and
i will sink
this word
you call love.

f all down
till the sun repeats
its mode and ill
look deeply into
your eyes. till those
three words crumble
out of your mouth.
till those three
words appear
in thin air.
the transition between
me and you
will never fail.
the lines that lie between
us will never
form into parallel

        she rewinds.

                i stop.

turn, smile, shift, repeat.
-- : [link]

-- ignore it. itsnotsupposetomakesense.

different types of poetry ive written in the last couple of weeks punched intogether. etc. whatever
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losing a friend

when i sit back and look at everyone,
i notice you sitting there
with all your new found friends.
always ignoring me, blowing me off, pretending
as if im not even there.
youve changed, to become
so much like them
you are now something
you once could not stand

i remember when youd say
ill never be like that.
you didnt care what they thought,
wed sit and make fun of people
whod sit and make fun of us.
big pants, spiky hair, pez dispensers
all little things that made our
friendship work

now youre the one
who says the things
that make me want to hate you.
my clothes, hair, personality
all subjects of our conversations.
you try to change me,
as me why im not normal,
do you mean normal, like you?
now every time i see you
its always the same

i look towards you
you glance at me
then turn your head
forgetting me
i wrote this a while ago, as my best friend and i started to slowly drift apart. and now, he and i, haven't spoken to one another for over six months.

let me know what you think, please.
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She opens the door to let me in and asks me to excuse the mess. I've already forgotten about it, I've known her for years. Her hands are black with charcoal and her hair is lank against her face, having been unwashed for days. I know her aquatic eyes, as if she had been a mermaid in a past life and still longed to return to the water. She dumps her daughter into my arms and heads for the paint hidden in the corner, moving like a rat that's just found a way out of its cage. I attempt to console Emily, trying to heal her damaged heart. It's useless though, all she wants is her mother and a little security. There are piles of clothes everywhere, stacks of old books, filled ashtrays, broken glass scattered over the kitchen floor. I ask her what happened and she tells me that she just got angry at this Tele-marketer and decided to throw some plates around to ease her anger.
"On days like these," she used to say, "it's too cold to swim and everything feels like the weather."

I don't know why I'm still doing this. Why I'm allowing pieces of myself blow to the wind. Perhaps it's due to the fact that there isn't a line that separates me from a convict except the reality that I've never committed a crime. But as far as I'm concerned, I'm a slave to my chains.
"What day is it anyway?" she asks me, using one of her palms to push a strand of dark blonde hair away from her face.
"November second," I answer quickly, sitting down on one of the kitchen chairs.
"I can't believe it, you know? It's been another month already. Like I've got any money to pay the bastards downstairs for this place." I know she's been up to something because she's breathing a little deeper, she's unusually fidgety. She tells me she's been off the drugs, honest, but I know there's more to her than truth.
"When's her next check-up?" I interject.
"Next week, Wednesday at four. I know it's your busiest day, with work and all, but it shouldn't take too long. Just an ear ache," she says rapidly, mixing reds and blues together.

Somehow I see myself, ten years from now, still doing this. Walking the five blocks from my house to hers to see how she's doing. Picking her up random things at the grocery store like cans of tuna fish or black cherry yoghurt. I don't know why I do this. Perhaps because she knows me better than I do, because things don't always end after they begin and some things can't. Maybe because I know exactly what would happen if I stopped coming. She'd waste all of her money on boyfriends and Belladonna, sell Emily to anyone who might take her, and collapse on the sidewalks of New York, penniless, eyes dilated, open to the world. As far as I was concerned, she was already gone.
She was painting a mural on her wall of some place in France I'd never been to and where she'd never go. If anything, she could paint. That's how we met in the first place, two emotionally indulgent artists who quoted Sylvia Plath and wanted to change the world. We were placed in the same art class and she smelled of cigarette smoke, her leading trademark, wore dark lipstick, Sin Red. Said she hated drawing portraits too, her silver earrings jiggling against her neck.

"I was named after Alice in Wonderland, can you believe that? Better than Dorothy or something, but still," I can still recall her saying, tossing a stick of gum in her mouth. She wore blouses and corduroys, pretended like she could own the world if she wanted to. It wasn't such a fantastical belief, though. I would have believed her.
Her apartment was fairly small. Cream curtains hung from the window to the outside and everything was dusty. There were breakfast plates on the table in front of the TV topped with toast crust and leftover strawberry jam, with no place to sit down except in the kitchen. She never had enough money to afford furniture, and what little she received in welfare went towards the baby.

"I can't stay long," I told her. "I have a lot of homework. With university applications and everything."
She removed her paintbrush from the wall, frowned and paused. "I thought we had decided this. I thought we decided we were going to team up and form a mural company or something after you graduated."
"It was just an idea, Alice. You're not even close to obtaining your diploma. Besides, how would you have time for work with a baby? You've never had a job in your life."
"Fine, you know what, you just go. Get out of here. You think I can't do things by myself? Think I can't hold down a job? You're wrong, you know that? Just get out of here. I don't want to see you. I don't need your little pity visits and hospital drives. I'll just take a taxi. You might as well just go if you're so busy."

I used to imagine that she would become this infamous artist and have displays up in museums in Europe like she wrote about in her leather-bound journals. I used to think we might find ourselves in our twenties, sitting on a bench somewhere in Germany, feeding pigeons and discussing the latest underground musicians. She'd shake her head at Warhol and pause for van Gogh, as if attempting to visualize him in her mind. Instead, she was off her rocker, kicking me out before I had a chance to breathe. It's too cold to swim and everything feels like the weather.

She lives in a world where graffiti is sprayed on every building and where Mexican children lean over the railings of their tiny balconies, accidentally throwing down clean clothing that was hanging out to dry. They play soccer in the alley and kick over garbage cans filled with fast food containers and half-empty milkshakes. They could be anyone.
"You were at Alice's again, weren't you?" Her stare engraves itself in me and I'm forced to look away. I don't answer her, choosing instead to dodge for the refrigerator and grab the orange juice. I can feel her thoughts against me, as tough as raw meat. "I don't want you over there. You're not going over there anymore."
"Since when is it a crime to visit your friends?" But I lay off because she's giving me this look like I'm not going to come out of the water if I don't nod my head in agreement. She's talking to me like I'm six years old again, wearing dresses covered in daisies, chasing butterflies in my backyard, as silent as the breeze. I had never heard of Alice Elm then. I only knew how many crayons were in my Crayola box, how many drawings of houses I had stashed away in my dresser drawer. It seemed like that was all that would ever matter.

I drank down a glass of juice. Alice always thrived on being the wild child. It empowered her, cradled her. I don't blame her for the way she was because I don't know her. I'm not sure if anyone does or ever has. I went to a local diner for dinner one night with her, she said she had a couple guys waiting for her there. We sat at one of the booths in the farthest corner of the room, feeling like groupies from the seventies in our Lennon sunglasses. One of the guys she met there passed her a sugary white substance packed away tightly in some transparent bag, and she grinned mischievously. She knew what she was getting into. She wasn't stupid. Ostensibly, she was so street smart that no one could ever bring her down, keeping her secrets close to her like guns. Her way of protecting herself was never letting anyone unto her battleground.

"You have to come here," I remember her saying. She called my house while my mother was gone to my grandmothers' overnight. Her voice was raspy and drunken. It was nearly two am and she said to me You have to come here, you have to find a way to find me, I think I'm going to die. I pulled a pair of faded jeans on and walked the five blocks to her apartment, wondering if she'd ever see the sun again. You never knew with her. She wasn't made of steel as much as she pretended to be. Her emotions were as delicate as fish bones and you never knew where she'd break next.

She told me to sit down and handed me her guitar. Her eyes were red and one was discoloured, a temporary flower tattooed over her skin. Her face was flushed and she was drunk and high, but I stayed despite the ardent instinct to leave formulating itself between my heart and my brain. She was sprawled over her bed, poetry books written by Adrienne Rich and Anne Sexton stacked next to her worn mattress. Emily was asleep in the other room.
"Play something," she urged, so I strummed Joni Mitchell on her acoustic and she smiled lightly, soaking up the sound of solace. I just sat there and played until the sunlight wedged through the blinds and she had fallen asleep in spite of herself. I still don't know what happened, seems I never do, but I'm not sure if the past is such a great friend to know anyway. If you treat time candidly, it only hits you harder.

I've learned that sometimes evil triumphs and nobody cares, that time is as large as the world and as infinite as the universe. Sometimes the ocean opens and we slip into the mouths of white whales with nothing left but the skin of our selves, enveloped in the madness of our own making. That all that may remain are the breaking and the broken, leaves falling to the ground with effortless grace. And in this instant we know we've got everything in front of us and nothing behind us, unable to grasp what we want from life or what we have. We find ourselves in this bleak darkness, where everything leads to everywhere and no one's quite sure who we really are anymore. No one can predict the future accurately, but eventually, we'll find ourselves skin on sand, dead, and dying, and as no one at all but the grains in our shoes.

My mother's shadow undulated on the wall, back in forth. She was gathering pans and boiling water on the stove, mumbling something about somebody she works with.
"You should look over your notes, you know. Better to be too prepared," my mother advised, turning to look at me.
"It's only five-thirty," I retorted defensively.
"Just a suggestion," she murmured. "Just wondering if that Alice Elm girl is getting to you and your studies. You were always a happy child. You used to get such excellent grades and paint such nice things. Why don't you paint anything nice anymore?"
I rubbed my eyes and shrugged. "Things change."
She pointed at a stack of my paintings that rested over the counter.
"Really, what is all of this? It's dark and depressing. People don't want to see this."
"You mean, you don't want to see this. Most people have no qualms with what I do. It's just another style," I explained.
"Well, stop painting like that." She took the bundle of paintings and ripped them up without blinking. Quickly, rapidly, the ripping noises loud and resonant. She tossed the remnants in the garbage and went back to her cooking as if nothing happened. This was her way of winning the war. She wanted me to be what she predicted I'd be, kidnapped my precarious nature and molded it to fit around something stronger, something definite. I stood still, frozen down to the marrow in my bones.

I didn't even look at her. I should have screamed, but what good would it do anyway. I took my jacket from the sofa and slipped on my running shoes, walked out of the house with five dollars in my pocket. I fell into the pouring rain, ran down the cement stairs and headed to nowhere in particular, with her shouting in the background; you'll thank me for it someday. If only she listened to her words. All she did was abuse language the way she killed art.
I don't know why I walked to Alice's. I'd just been there, and she kicked me out. Declaration of disconnection, independence seething at her heels, she was on one of her off days. I guess I went back because I belonged there with her and she knew it. She saw through the false intellectuality of the State and the superficiality society used to classify. She knew you didn't have to be stupid to fail, that suffering wasn't discriminatory, that poverty wasn't selective. Knew that art was a way of life and not a way to live, but people would try that route anyway. She knew I'd come back, the way I always did, because in so many ways I would have done anything to have an ounce of the nerve she had to choose to live her life.

A couple kids were kicking around a soccer ball, their toes hanging out of the ends of their running shoes. I felt disgusting for wearing name brands bought from child support payments. My mother was convinced they were a better make, but what did it matter. I was only the girl who got everything. It didn't mean anything anywhere else. I should have grown up in a dilapidated building, broken shoes, broken English, struggling just to hope.
I climbed the stairs up to her apartment because the elevator wasn't working. I knocked on the door, but nobody answered. I knocked again and realized that no one would. I tried the handle and opened the door, traipsing in to the sounds of Emily crying fiercely and the buzzing of the television screen. It smelled of grilled cheese and the paint cans were still out. I opened Emily's door and found her inside her crib, picked her up. The room was painted in sunshine yellow and there was a small bookshelf beside the door filled with young adult fiction. Emily was warm and her face was red. I looked down at her and thought she might end up looking more like Alice than I had previously predicted. Her eyes were the same shade of blue.

"Alice?" I shouted. The clock chimed. "Alice?" I repeated.
I rushed to her room. Maybe she was just taking a rest.
The door creaked open and I found her on the floor, her walls scrawled with nonsensical poetry. Her head was leaning against her right arm. I shouted at her, but she didn't move. I put the baby down on the bed. Alice, Alice. She didn't move. The ripping of art, the breaking of pieces. Water was running down my face now, but it couldn't be tears. I wasn't crying. Emily was still screaming at the top of her lungs and the phone was off the hook. I turned Alice over and she still seemed so alive, like she was just in one of those trances of hers where she didn't want to wake up for anything but the promise of paint. In high school, everyone wanted to be beautiful like her, possess all of that kind of pretty, incandescent confidence that seemed to come to her so naturally, as if she was born with it being her second skin. Cocaine was a kind of seven-letter evil, driving mad into the countryside without a single warning of the damage that could be done. And now she was eaten away by something so small, something so insignificant. Departing from Wonderland and slowly succumbing to the cold of the weather.
I wrote this recently for my Writer's Craft class. It's due tomorrow, actually. Please let me know what you think. All comments are appreciated. The picture above is of actress Dominique Swain.
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: thurs. 7:00ish am :
A nurse comes into the room and wakes me saying they have to take some blood to do tests.
She fills seven vials.
I notice I have a roommate.
She leaves and wake up call is announced.
My roommate looks at me and grabs her clothes and goes into the bathroom.

: thurs. 7:30ish am :
We are all dressed and in the hall.
Lined up like in a prison roll call.
I've only met one of the other kids this boy who is 11 and had to stay awake all night for a CAT scan in the morning.
They all assess me I am the new one.

: thurs. 7:40ish am :
My first breakfast, I learn names and I learn ailments.
This one Depressed
This one Bulimic
This one Angry
This one Who's father sent him here to be examined because he thinks he isn't outgoing enough.

: thurs. 8:00ish am :
I sit looking out the window of the rec room.
The view is a huge graveyard and I think how ironic.
How convenient.
This girl Racheal asks me why I am here
I show my bandages.
A boy named Leroy calls me a psycho, says he doesn't belong here with us psycho's.
Racheal says he's here for uncontrollable rage, for hurting people.

: thurs. 8:30ish am :
Men come in bringing carpeting they are recarpeting the whole ward.
I'm tired and I feel drained I don't care what is happening around me.
I feel like I am watching a movie of my life not acting in it.

: thurs. 9:00ish am :
I'm called out of the room by a nurse saying its time for me to see the doctor for my wrists.
An orderly is called to escort me to the examining room.
They buzz us out.
We walk in silence he is wearing all white.

: thurs. 9:15ish am :
I enter the room and sit where I am told and wait for the doctor.
The doctor comes in he is an arabic man in his 30's or 40's.
He unwraps my wrists as I watch his face.
I see a look of surprise that is quickly shut down and wiped away.
He says " well I see you were serious "
He knows I know the difference between up and down and across.
People who go up and down die more than people who do it across.
He looks at the stitches and has me grip his hand and raise my arms.
He asks me about how I did it how I knew to do it that way.
I just knew, I read alot.
He looks...sad.
He tells me that I most likely set the water pressure to high.
It stemmed the bleeding a little bit.
It saved my life.
I feel like crying now.
I messed up.
He tells me I may have nerve damage that will effect me later in life.
No way to tell that yet.
It may heal right, it may not.
He tells me the scars will be big.
I can tell he's not at all happy with the sewing job the last doctor did.
He says goodbye to me and calls the orderly.

: thurs. 9:45ish am :
The orderly walks me back nothing is said
They buzz me in, everyones in the rec room for group therapy.
I'm scared I don't know what to expect.
I see a lady and all the other kids sitting in there and the nurse gets me a chair.
The lady introduces herself to me saying she is one of a group of doctors I will be dealing with.
She is the group therapy Doctor.
She tells me to introduce myself and tell why I am here.

: thurs. 10:15ish am :
Hi my name is brandy I'm 15 and I'm here because I slit my wrists with a razor.
I'm here because I failed.
The Doctor says " why do you think you failed? "
I answer because I didn't die
she replies " I think you succeeded "
I'm confused
she smiles and says ... " Now you can get help, now you can start to not hurt "
I think she's just one more person who will never understand.

: thurs. 12:00ish pm :
Lunch and menus to fill out for the rest of the weeks meals I get a choice of what I can eat.
I am still an oddity the only one in here with physical scars from trying to die.
My bandages get stares.

: thurs. 1:30ish pm :
The 11 yr old (tim) and I are pulled aside and told we can use rooms on the side not getting carpeted to nap for awhile since we haven't had alot of sleep.
The rest of the ward goes on their physical activity.

: thurs. 1:40ish pm :
I fall asleep finally

: thurs. 5:00ish pm :
Dinner is something unnameable, I notice that leroy sits far from me.
I talk of normal things with my roommate and racheal and amy and those near me.
I feel like I cannot really be here and I don't know what to do.
My family isn't allowed to see me for a week.
I'm glad.
I feel ashamed, guilty.

: thurs. 7:00ish pm :
We watch some movie thats been approved ok for all ages and unexcitable.
The whole ward consists of a door at the head of a hall coming in i see a nurses room on the left.
My room on the right directly across.
Then a line of rooms following mine and at the end of the hall is the rec room.
Where I will eat, read, have group, watch tv, look out the window at the graveyard, and where we all will be together day after day.

: thurs. 9:00ish pm :
Bedtime I am tired just always tired now.
My roomate jess and I talk of things that she has seen here.
Seems she is a veteran here, in this lock down we are in the highest security room
under the most supervision.
This is where the new people go and the most likely to hurt themselves.
We sleep.

: thurs. 11:00ish pm :
The nurse checks us with the flashlight on her bedwatch.
Waking me up when the light hits me.

: fri. 1:00ish am :
The nurse again.

: fri. 3:00ish am :
The nurse on rounds see's my eyes open and asks if I am having trouble sleeping.

: fri. 5:00ish am :
I am asleep and I don't hear the nurse this time.

: fri. 7:00ish am :
I awaken to a nurse with a cart who needs yet more blood.
My roommate gets up and goes to shower.
The rules are you have to shower every morning you can't do it at night.

: fri. 7:30ish pm :
Roll call
Another day.

--to be continued--

I know this seems like it is gonna be a hundred pages long but I wanted to set the monotony in your mind, the structure of the place.
It will become quicker in the next installment and it will get more personal and harder to write.
I hope someone takes something useful away from this series.
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