Well, i've added a lot of great faves recently so I think it's about time for a feature.

Images:

<da:thumb id="394640354"/><da:thumb id="111457015"/> <da:thumb id="257200103"/><da:thumb id="385506499"/> <da:thumb id="202709515"/>




Lit:

Honest PsychiatristNormal, your brain is not.
Take a guess at what you got.
It's needed for your medication.
Label shouldn't cause frustration.
Guess at what pill to take.
So many that they make.
Don't know about your brain.
Could make you more insane.
Effects are usually small.
You may have none at all.
We warn just so you know,
Your pain may just grow.
Your brain isn't fried.
Just another to be tried.
Patience is what I need.
I promise it isn't greed.
So here's another pill.
Maybe now you won't be ill. ScarsI’ve spent far too many years
       painting on my skin.
In shades of red and silver;
       I can’t find where it begins.
My medium takes too long to dry
       and the mistakes will never fade;
placed upon me in white lines
       that can never be unmade.
It’s hard to leave pain behind
       when it is written on your wrists—
art I could never understand,
       and couldn’t quite resist.
A permanent reminder
       of things that I have been;
Sorrow lasts forever
       when it is cut into your skin. Hidden'I wonder what my mom and dad would say
If they knew I cried each day...'
I wonder what they would say
If they saw my arms and legs
laced with scars
And a tale of misery
I wonder how they would feel
If they knew I was lying
That I didn't feel ill
I was forcing, willing
I wonder how it would hurt them
If they knew I was hurting
and switching emotional pain
for physical.
I wonder what they would think
if they knew I lived a lie
that I wasn't happy
but depressed, dying.
There's a reason they don't know
they'll do as they always do.
It's a personal attack on them they'd say
and that it's for attention.
But what if they're wrong?
What if it's not attention?
But I'm dying.
             Piece by piece,
                            losing my mind
                Confessions of a Cutter1. No matter how many times you tell me that you'll never hurt me, I still worry that I'll give you a reason to change your mind.
2. I'm not sure I'll ever know which is uglier: what I cut myself into, or what you do to me that makes me cut.
3. One, two. The third time's the charm. I guess that means no more suicide attempts for me.
4. I once walked the same half-mile track 26 times to keep from cutting. I did anyway.
5. I've gone 63 hours without eating. When I did eat, I was so mad at yself that I shook. I had eaten five baked Lays chips.
6. One of my closest friends uses the phrase 'that's not good enough,' as a reply to things that I do that she wants me to change. I never tell her how much that makes me hate myself for not being her 'good enough.' I know she does it so that I pull myself out of bad places.
7. I'd be your everlasting see-saw counter-balance - the only one that would dare keep you off of the polluted, rat-infested ground.
8. Don't you dare die first. (I'm afraid tha Attention Audience!Attention Audience!
Listen up to me as I speak!
Come on, and gather around!
You must know that all I am
is forever an Attention Seeker!
This is the title that has been
adorned onto me by my parents.
I have problems, but I must be
manipulating them, and wasting
their hard earned money!
I must be lying through my teeth
when I feel suicidal or other wise!
I must be losing my credibility with
my parents altogether!
They don't trust me when I say that
I can be alone for a long time.
Oh, what they do is valid,
this I know is true!
Alone is never a safe time for me,
the night is never a place for me to be.
I'm drowning in the darkness within myself,
and they want a logical reason for
the way that I am.
They want to find some sort of cure,
so I no longer wish to kill myself anymore,
and they call it attention seeking!
They say all the self harm is attention seeking!
FORGIVE ME IF I'M CRYING OUT FOR HELP!
I've suffered long enough like this.
It's time for me to take control
over my inner Scars
They say that every scars tells a story
Well, then I'm a fucking history book<da:thumb id="363403158"/> I Am
Some people would ask
About what I am hiding
Underneath my mask
I would sometimes say
"Let me tell you about myself
About who am I
And what I really am
Without telling any lies"
"I am nice, kind,
Quiet, meek,
Cute and adorable
The girl who hardly speaks"
No, I lied
Sorry about that
I lied about being meek
I am opposite of that
"I am indifferent, 
Uncaring, cold,
nonchalant, and bland
Or so I was told"
Sorry, I lied again
I am none of those
I lied about being cold, 
That is just a pose
"I am dark, gothic
Evil, and scary
Someome who you 
Would never marry"
"I am mysterious
As some would say
I am a witch or sorceress
Who likes to play"
Nah, you know me better
I lied about that too
Seriously, you are gullible
Or maybe just a fool
I'll tell the truth
I swear I will
Or I would stab my eye
And myself I would kill
"I am beautiful, wonderful
Social, and physically active,
I am simply awesome
That's why I am attractive"
"I am ugly, horrible,
A cutter, and insecure
I am simply terrible
That's why CutHow does it feel to have clean arms?
Not hiding your scars,
Not trapped behind bars
How does it feel to have clean legs?
Not feeling so aged,
Not locked in a cage HaikuI hate you Haiku
You are very hard to do
Go back to Japan down down down"Miss? Miss?"
Angie looks up from her knees, to the face of the worried attendant who had sat behind her desk all morning, hardly paying any attention to her and the dozen other people lining in the hall. The woman – mid thirties maybe, prim and proper and professional and obviously satisfied with her life in a way that makes Angie hate her a little – is smiling down at her now, worried and warm.
"You're number two hundred and twenty, right? It's your number," the woman says, pointing to the screen overhead which proclaims the numbers two hundred and nineteen to two hundred and twenty three.
Angie stares at the screen, then glances down to the slip of paper in her hand, and then up to the screen again. Yeah, that's her. She's number two hundred and twenty. Two two zero. That's her. She should get up now, smooth down the front of her jacket, pick up her purse, get ready to face the music – or the lack of it, whichever – but all she can do is mull the number over Think"So. You started exhibiting abilities…?"
"Um… three years ago? Yeah, three years, and it was May I think. Fourteenth or maybe sixteenth, I don't remember exactly – I just remember that it was my last semester. Yeah, three years ago, May."
"Fourteenth or sixteenth?"
"Yeah, one or the other. I remember that because I has these huge goddamn exams, you know, one was on fourteenth and other on sixteenth and it was during one of them I heard it for the first time. Can't remember which one though, just remember being a nervous wreck. I studied of course, I mean, hello, you know? But test's a test."
"Right. It started during an exam then? In a large crowd."
"Well, large enough. I didn't go to a big school – hell you should know, you probably have my files and everything. Don't you? I mean, don't people like you have files on everything, even someone like me? Or should that be especially someone like me…"
"How large was the crowd?"
"I don't know. Twenty f<da:thumb id="396626257"/> Reflections on the MetroThe population of the Metro car is sparse at eleven in the morning; people talk. The mother with her baby and young son, talking to her friend or sister or cousin sitting down. The young man and woman speaking exuberant Chinese, a language like a song. The group of students in floral dresses and Converse that my mom says look European because of their scarves. They're rapidly spewing French in the way teenagers do, only I've only ever heard it in English. It's comfortable, each of us with our companions, more like a restaurant or a museum.
But at five thirty, at L'Enfant Plaza, when people are going home from work in their button-downs and suits and briefcases and iPods and tired eyes, it's different. Holding on to the silver bar above my head, I feel like I'm standing over the woman in scrubs holding her iPhone; I'm right by the doors they say not to lean on; it's crowded. And now everyone is silent, as if by proximity others can tell what they're thinking, and it's all they can do no midnight ramblingsyou'll never know me at 2am
when the facade finally fades
and the bleeding pieces of a shattered heart
are laid bare upon a tear stained pillow.
you'll never see the bottomless void
overflowing yet completely numbed of all emotion
consuming, surrounding and teasing me
with false illusions that if I only
dance too close to the edge and
surrender myself to the demons that torment
the vulnerable points of my subconscious
will this young and wearied soul be at ease. Confessions of a Teenage VirginI remember the summer before 9th grade when my best friend finally admitted to me that she was having sex with her boyfriend. She had always been way more sexually experienced than I was. I had never had a boyfriend, feeling I was too young and could be focusing my attention on more important things. She had had more boyfriends than either of us could count and had been giving me mini sex ed classes since 7th grade.
I was shocked. They had been dating only a month or two and had never even been on a real date. I had paid attention in health class, as I did every class, and thus felt extremely informed on birth control. She claimed they used condoms, but I still lectured her that condoms were only eighty-something percent effective; they could break or be put on incorrectly. My lecturing made her extremely angry at me. She told me that the data was outdated and she was completely safe and she of course knew more than I did because she was the one having sex in the first place.
I had rea<da:thumb id="392360558"/>

Mature Content

<da:thumb id="395162759"/><da:thumb id="208684932"/> Love Letters On the TrainDear Stranger,
I'm leaving this post-it tucked in the side of the train-seat. If you're reading this, you've seen it. I've seen you sit here every few Monday mornings, sometimes tapping a bent, unlit cigarette against your thigh, sipping from your tea (who brings a tea cup onto a train anyway?); sometimes staring at the rain outside, or reading your well-worn, beaten copy of Jane Eyre (I hate that you fold the corners down - it's bibliophilic abuse. I wish the book would papercut you to defend itself a little, but I digress).
You seemed so sad this Monday morning past. Please smile again. I love it when your eyes catch the light of something I'm unaware of, something silently and intimately your own; a secret from the world that makes everything all the more meaningful to you.
- The Passenger
Dear Passenger,
I'm not in the habit of reading post-its from strangers. I found a love-letter hidden in a newspaper once, that the author forgot or was too afraid to send. It made me sad to think

Six Word Stories:

Airhead (Oxymoron)Empty-headed.
But so full of himself. MoralityHero.
Villain.
Really, what's the difference?<da:thumb id="391843194"/> Human NatureCrooked trees still reach for sun.<da:thumb id="390539187"/> A six word short storyseriously, Why is remembering so difficult?<da:thumb id="388977780"/><da:thumb id="390401081"/> PrincessSlayed the knights, loved the dragon.<da:thumb id="385708985"/>

And yeah. ^.^

(Edit: Well, that's annoying. I've posted so many comments telling people they've been featured that dA thinks I'm spamming people...)