I always get complimented on my writing. It's not just for the creative pieces or the legal memos that I write day after day. Although I suppose the praise for that never hurts.

No. The compliments are always about the writings I do at my most vulnerable. Beyond the creative mind or even my analytical one.

It's about the writings from my soul. Cliche? Maybe. But it's true.

It'll be the handwritten letters I write in my most contemplative mornings, the rarest of days that I wake up early. Or the late night texts from when I lay down for bed, my cheeks aching from laughing all night with my friends.

It is only then, that I truly write how I feel.

I tell my friends how grateful I am for them to even exist. For them to be in my life. I write of their greatest accomplishments. Especially the ones they never see. How beautiful their souls are or how kind their eyes can be. The compliments flow easy and I somehow never have to write a lie.

And though I write and I write, no one ever seems to write for me.

'Oh, but I'm not good with words like that!'

'You have such a wonderful way with words. Nothing I say could compare!'

It seems that all those in my life are lacking in this particular skill.

Or perhaps I'm not worth writing for.

Regardless, I keep writing. Waiting for the moment in which the words will come together for those I love and maybe someday I too shall receive a letter.

This isn't my usual writing but...

This community, this entire community itself, are the most hurt, yet the most blessed people I've ever seen. All of you guys deserve a hug---a giant one---because some of your writings just hit too close to home.

Who hurt you this time?

The fact that some of y'all relate to the most hurtful, heart-wrenching, and the most emotional writings out there just proves it all

when all we ever do is watch the clock, waiting becomes a national sport. where life seems suspended in anticipation for something, anything to happen. lives haunted by the figments of the people we thought we'd someday become only to be disappointed by the sheer mundanity of it all like an endless race to the bottom, forever wishing for something better.

Pitter, patter, plop

Drops on the tin roof ring out

Singing summer praise

Slowly sliding down

A transparent window pane

Translucent and free

Spilling downward, splash

On Freshly revealed red clay

Wounds of the earth, heal

I’m sitting in this auditorium

waiting for my daughter to sing

but I don’t feel like a parent.

I feel like a lost little kid

looking at the happy little couples

with their happy little families

living in their cozy little cottages

with their little mini vans out front.

And the hole in my chest

aches with loneliness.

But then my daughter comes in

walking like a silly penguin

and I chuckle

at our silly little broken family

full of silly little lunatics

who are gonna grow up

to change the world.

9

stands

as the final man

on the diving

board

Poised

when everything

has had its fill

and its negative!

take any number

Times the lonely figure

and it all returns in

the affirmative

Regard:

9 x 1 = 0+9  = 9

9 x 2 = 1+8  = 9

9 x 3 = 2+7  = 9

9 x 4 = 3+6  = 9

9 x 5 ..and on on!

Add a little something

to the back bone

and see what

forms in the

mind and belly

of the beast:

9 + 1 = 1+0  = 1

9 + 2 = 1+1  = 2

9 + 3 = 1+2  = 3

9 + 4 = 1+3  = 4

and more see..?

subtracting/dividing

never cool in

operation....

so no sense

in wading

that deathly

pool

9

is

already

diving

into 10thcycle

- - - - - - - - - -

always

ALIVE

*This is not about me*

I used to wonder what thrill bird watchers got. I used to think them crazy for sitting still for hours looking at birds.

But I get it now. The rush of staying hidden, the awe of watching. Now, of course, I still think bird-watching is ludicrous.

But people watching.

That's a whole new ballpark.

I know you. Everything about you. The state of your room, how many hours you sleep, the way you cover your computer camera because, believe me, I've tried, I know the way smile when you're texting them. The way your clothes are organized. Your quirk you think no one knows about. I do.

I know. Because I've watched and I've waited.

For the perfect time to take you.

I was born; happily, I am here, still alive to write for you, fellow Readers.

I live in Ukraine. We struggle, and I must assure you, this is not going to stop. Fighting for freedom is too much in human nature, it seems, to stop in the middle of fighting.

Now a few more words about me. I write for challenges only, being too idle to challenge myself; that means I must thank fellows who post challeges for introducing my into the world of writing.

Thus, thank you, everybody!