My throat has long been silent. My tongue weak and only a bare whisper. But I remember when I could stir the mountains. I could raise the sun. I could call a storm. No, not a storm. Storms cause distruction and hopelessness. My voice was of grace. Every moment I could, I would sing. Marco would roll his eyes every time I heard my favorite song come on the radio. Still, he played the piano along with my voice as we ruled the stage of our living room. He drummed along the aisles at the grocery store as I rose my voice above the rattling shopping cart.

Now I hear nothing over the noise of the wind. It shakes the windows of my bedroom though they are boarded and dark. No electricity. The radio only is a string of blaring fuz. No running water. I stare blankly at the square of wood covering my window.The trees outside are being torn from there roots. Rain drowns the streets. Marco is out there. I am deaf to the music. I can no longer hear over the screams of the hurricane. Where is Marco's reassuring voice? I am trapped.

The sunlight makes her eyes wince,

as she leaves,

the building of comfort,

and guide.

Her orange baggy clothes gone.

Form fitting jeans and T in its place.

There is a moment,

she thinks she sees her father.

No.

There is no one outside to meet her.

We have all given up,

on her.

Everyone but,

me.

It is not her first release.

She may not know,

but it will also not be her last.

She has gone through rehab.

She's been clean for many weeks.

But it is the same old story.

Once let out,

she is thrown in again.

And I am left,

numb by depression,

loss,

disappointment.

I have lied, that

no one is there to meet

her.

They,

They are waiting,

in the heat of a black SUV,

for her.

Like They always do.

and They see

her step onto the

pavement,

lost and wandering,

just how They like it.

And,

while,

I'm in a bar,

hung over,

wondering,

how this can happen again.

And if it was the right,

decision,

to not,

come to pick her up,

and say,

everything will be

fixed,

now.

Because,

she will,

change.

Because,

things will be different.

Because she'll get her life together.

Because I love her.

But,

in the back of my mind,

I know,

it makes no difference,

who is there

to greet her,

because They,

They

are always,

there.

Following behind her,

like a ghost.

All the love I give,

All the tears I shed,

All the walls I punch,

will never change this.

Her life is a ticking time bomb,

a poison that doesn't care,

for my life.

But, I care so much for hers.

Does that matter?

No.

They give her what she wants,

Even if it slaughters everyone around her.

Her father, me, her little son,

who just turned five.

It is us or the drugs.

One day,

I hope,

I'll find her,

with a needle in her arm,

Dead,

in the corner,

between two brick buildings,

killed by her own obsession.

Then maybe torment will fade,

and They,

will find a different prey.

Rows and rows and rows. Perfect for wandering ghosts. Rusting wings. Flightless and lifeless under the heat of the Arizona sun. It is as if they wait for a hurricane to wash all the memories away. Anything to escape the brutal pounding of burning waves. Row, row, row your boat. Down a river of sand and dust. Or is the boat really a piece of scrap metal and cactus needles? Is your oar made out of foraged human bone? For now and forever they have no purpose. Their engines frozen. Headstones woven. Wings bent and broken. Left, forgotten. Alone and rotten. This is the aircraft boneyard.

----

You can find the Airplane Graveyard on Google Maps

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the flickering hour glass,

swirling circle,

spinning pinwheel of death.

Blinking dots,

around and around,

unsure of where to stop.

waiting,

waiting,

and still waiting...

frozen in time.

wanting something to click,

but I just don't understand.

confused,

hesitation,

wandering endlessly down a foggy road,

hope,

on the brink of flat lining...

not knowing,

an end.

not knowing,

where to belong.

lost

-Life

I hate wind. Mama always would scold me when I said the word "hate". 

"People that hate have that much less room for love," she'd lecture me.

Remembering this makes the past flip in it's grave. The breeze, the color red, the sky; they all have a sour taste. Mama, I can't cry this hate away. Years have made my anger go stale, but still it lingers all the same.

Mama always told me to hold onto that little kite or else I would loose it in the wind. I would raise that kite into the troposphere, high into the clouds, unwinding the string until only a few inches were left.

Red would bob against the sky, dancing with the pale blue ocean above.The breeze would become more wild there. I watched as the kite whipped back and forth. It dipped and dived through the air as if in a frolicking frenzy. Wild... but I still held it in the grip of my fist. I had the power and control.

Mama always said I was too obsessed with my little red kite. She would sigh as she saw me take out my toy for the third time that day.

"There are other things you can do," she would try to explain.

But nothing gave a tiny child more joy than to watch something, that had once been held in their hand, reach far above the tree line.

"All the kids in the state will see my cool kite," I'd reason with her.

" Very few children," Mama would answer, " look up as much as you do, but you keep at it, okay."

Mama always was sick. She attempted to hide her coughing and choking but I could hear it through the windows, even when she closed them.

" Come see me fly my kite," I would say.

"I will watch from the window, today. Maybe when the breeze is a little calmer I will watch outside," she replied through a cracked voice.

Mama never said she would die. The day she did not have breakfast ready in the morning was the day the wind rattled the windows. Thunder rumbled. Darkness covered the sun.

"Mama, I'm gonna go fly my kite before it rains. I think it will go really high up today," I yelled to deaf ears in my mother's bedroom, " I will be back for breakfast."

I yanked my kite from the closest and zipped up my coat. A flash lit up the windows. Rushing outside, I scrambled to untangle the string. I threw my little red kite up into the thick gray sky. The wind yanked it quickly and pulled me right and left.

" Hold on tight," I recited what Mother had told me.

Higher and higher the kite rose. It twisted and bent violently.The string tugged against my finger's hold.Tears welled in my eyes.

" Don't break it!" I shouted to the wall of clouds churning above my head.

But it was in vein. The string became strained in my hand. I fell to the ground and struggled to stand. Dirt filled my lungs. The kite's line slowly slide through my palm. Drops of rain began to splash my bare cheeks.

"Stop!" I tried to yell again. I couldn't see, I couldn't breath, my hands felt raw... I had to...please no... I had to let go...

My little red kite flung into the ominous sky. Thunder echoed across the dark clouds as if in a mocking reply to my plead. I squinted my eyes, falling to my knees for mercy, before it disappeared from my sight.

That was the last I saw of my little red kite.

I remember feeling like I wanted to escape to the moon, hoping not even NASA's cameras could spot me. I've got a faint memory of being haunted by the way some lady at the store looked at me. I wished I could've become a chameleon or something. There is more than one account that my mouth seemed to not function properly. Awkward silences were a given. Just standing up, I'd be threatened with drowning stares.

"I'm such an idiot,"I'd tell myself.

"There goes my reputation," I'd mutter.

But living that way is like not living at all. You close off the whole world with your head facing your shoes. You miss the warmth of the sun by wearing your zipped up black hoodie all year long. I wasn't getting any younger. I was tired of feeling judged, labeled, and locked in. 

The moment I decided I wouldn't be followed by the shadow of doubt, was the day I enjoyed what I had around me. 

I've come to realize that I had built my own walls and that I was my worst critic.

Yes, I will be awkward.

And yes, I will be a weirdo.

But being yourself is worth a million.

Who really wants to be a cold blooded chameleon anyways?

You are blunt and honest when you say that you never signed up for this. You signed to kill. You signed to ride with the big boys. But they never explained what's included in the package.

The blood stains deeper than the skin. It penetrates the bone. The air outside nips your skin as if teasing your conscience. Dim morning sunlight makes long shadows of the canyon walls. The ringing of ADare's scream still holds thick in the air.

The rest of the posse has all but gone. You are the only being left standing by the crippled body. A glass box of guilt seems to surround you, seems to trap you here.

Your gut twists and rolls inside. Acid rises in your throat. You bend over quickly and heave out what is left of last night's dinner.

You fall to your knees in exhaustion.

"How does no one else feel this side affect?!" you yell in demand.

The lone reply is your echo.

" Is sympathy a weakness?!" you try again.

This time you see that you have caught the attention of a vulture. The runt of a bird circles above you in temptation.

You realize someone must bury A'Dare, the poor guy. He was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have happened to any traveler.

You dread to touch the body but it won't move on its own. Slowly, you get to your feet to start digging that hole.

Imagine this:You are strolling down a twisting concrete sidewalk. Looming tree are scattered around you. Kids cry out in joy in the distance. You hear the squeak of old swings as they play a song that is off tune. Spotting a shaded place under an oak tree, you fall into the bench. The notebook is heavy in your hand. You thought taking a walk outside would clear your mind and fill the pages of paper in your palm. Glancing around, your eyes fall upon a young man laying under a tree. He has pale skin and dark hair and eyes. A tattoo of a name is scrolled across his right arm. Below there is an American flag and a form that looked to be a strand  of dog tags. A cross is inked on the back of his wrist. A strong smell floats from the man toward you. You see white smoke escape from his mouth. He laughs and you realize that there is a woman giggling next to him. The man talks with one of his hands, the one that holds the source of the white clouds, and raises it with the sense of confidence and adventure. You move your gaze to his other hand which lays limp by his side. Where his fingers should be there is empty space. His fingers are missing. You look away out of embarrassment. You don't want to seem rude staring at his missing limb. Turning your head, you notice another young man sitting under a pavilion. He has seamless olive skin and light brown hair. He wears a tucked in plaid button up. Ear buds hang from his collar. In his hands is a camera. Not a cell phone, a fancy Canon camera. He stands and wanders toward one of the most neglected tree's in the park. Flash. He glances at the screen of the device and smiles as if content with the product.He wanders away from the tree, and looks up to the sky. It is as blue as a sapphire with patches of distant white clouds. He shields his eyes against the sun as if trying to get a better glims of whats above. Then he  turns his head down where he spots something small, a coin, and stashes it in his pocket. Now you wonder, who is more of a man...and further, who is more human? At first the answer is easy...but... then you look deeper....

I have one of the most intense, stressful, dangerous, and adventurous jobs in the country. Can you hear my sarcasm? I work at a potato factory... Not convinced? Me either...I still think my first day on the job was a bad dream. I should be getting my Doctorate by now! I scoff at my own irony every day I put that hair net on my head.

For eight hours a day, I stare at rows of raw deformed brown things. If I spot one that is really screwed up then I pick it off of the conveyor belt and toss it into an oversized black bin(aka garbage). That's where all the misfits go. The rejects.

  Nobody wants to consume a potato that have two arms and is curved to look like a rotten banana. Though they are perfectly eatable, they aren't the most beautiful. You can find beauty in anything, one random guy once said. Well, he's probably never stared at starchy poop for three years!

I look around at my coworkers. They all have that disappointed expression as if they never thought they would make a living off of throwing away rejected potatoes. They move like robots, with glazes over their eyes.

I, on the other hand, try to make work interesting. Try is the key word. I search for recognizable objects in mounds of potatoes. I've found elephants, airplanes, and presidents. I've found more Abraham Lincoln's than anything, so if you find one in your bag... hate to break it to ya... it's nothing special!

Now let me tell you 'bout my potato collection. That's right, don't judge! I've got a whole room in my mother's basement full of cool looking potatoes. I put them in jars filled with this preservation stuff (don't ask where I find it).

Got one that is shaped as a cowboy boot and even one that is the spitting image of a Ninja Turtle.

See, me and potatoes, we've got a love hate relationship; but even so, sometimes I wonder if that one potato I tossed in the bin could have had the face of Justin Bieber on it or has the features of an Egyptian pharaoh's tomb. You just don't know until you take a better look.

Maybe rejection is unnecessary? I don't know? Like who decided on perfection? I better get back to work. My name's anonymous right?... I still need my job you know...

Shall my friends compare me to a pathetically obsessed teenage girl?

Thou art more delicious and more tempting.

Rough winds do not shake the daring delivery guy,

And summer’s coming, means I must loose some weight.

Give thee up, for salad (blah!)

But thy crust, Sometimes too hot, burns my hungry tongue,

Often I fall for your gold complexion;

crispy on the outside,

soft on the inside,

Velvet red, creamy cheese, thick pepperoni.

And I will search far and wide,

By chance, I may never taste thee again;

But thy eternal flavor shall not fade,

Nor loose that sweet buttery crust, that sauce and cheese,

Nor shall an empty box bring me wandering to the garbage,

When Pizza Hut closes, Domino's locks the door, our time thou grow’st.

And only Papa John's is open, (disgusting).

I will sacrifice!

So long as men creates thee, or my nose can smell,

So long lives pizza, because life would be disappointing without thee.