Teach me how to rhyme.

This is for the band who can't agree on a name.
The girls who sing to their hairbrushes about fame.
The ballers who got no game.
For the money treated all the same.

This is for the hotels with clean sheets.
The dead shrimp you didn't eat.
Songs not on repeat.
Warm socks and cold feet.

The times you got lost in Salt Lake City.
The girls who didn't get called pretty.
And the jokes you thought made you witty.

This is for the movies who got bad reviews.
Your good luck charm that made you lose.
The man who taught you to tie your shoes.
And the colleges that made you choose.

All the words you never said.
The thoughts stuck inside your head.
The pantries who still have bread.
The kids whose parents aren't yet dead.

All the jokes about your mom.
Whoever knows right from wrong.
All the girls with hair that's long.
And the babies who never came along.

The kids who said they didn't care.
The kids that weren't taught not to stare.
The kids who didn't question fair.
The kids who chopped off all their hair.

All the boys with ironed shirts.
The ones who claimed it didn't hurt.
The kids who never hit their growth spurt.
The ones who fell and tasted dirt.

You who wished upon a star.
Who was promised heaven wasn't far.
The hours you spent waiting in your car.
Drinking coffee black as tar.

I'm scared of scars. I'm scared of smoke.
I'm scared you think it's just a joke.
I'm scared your dick will make me choke.

I'm scared of lips. I'm scared of mouths.
I'm scared of north east west and south.
I'm scared this home is just a house.

Take me back to the age when you still thought snow had flavor.
Take me back to the days that I didn't savor.

This is for the Mrs. who thinks her hubby's still at work.
The girls who try and fail to twerk.
The boy who said he liked your quirks.
Your ex you swear is such a jerk.

For the kids who eat lunch all alone.
Whoever's dog is gnawing on your bones.
The bullying no one condones.
The prom dress your mother's sewn.

The plastic surgery you thought you needed.
How many tries it took til you succeeded.
The warnings you heard but never heeded.
The texts you wish you had deleted.

For the first kisses gone to shit.
The people who never sit.
Homeruns you didn't hit.
And the baseball players that can't spit.

This is for you.

I'm not at prom.

I'm as broken as your promises and the empty light filtering through the glass. 

 I was the third from the left and they wouldn't stop laughing at my haircut.

The rain wore me out just like your tears.

We wanted to sit more than we wanted arms.

Forgotten like Grandma's old dishes and the Christmas decorations in spring.

The Alphabet (idea stolen from Alis Priddy)

A is for the abuse you reported. A is for abuse gone unreported.
B is for Botox and the fountain of youth. Every time your little sister called you "Bitch" and you believed her.
C is for cleavage and the little you've got.
D is for depression, the disease that's taking over the nation one teenager at a time. One case of the baby blues every couple of seconds. One chronic illness. One death in the family. One "life was easier when I was a kid." The disease that's taking over the commercials on TV with promises that Cymbalta can help and that's taking over your life in the form of a new therapist every week.
E is for espresso. To make up for energy and the joke that's become.
F is for forgiveness. F is for forgiving your ex seven times seven. F is for faith and the saint you're becoming.
G is for gay. We don't know how to handle them. We like their YouTube channels and their Facebook statuses, yet we're scared of gay marriage.
H is for high and however we get there.
I is for innocence and the loss thereof.
J is for jail. We rap about killing our wives. Abusing our girlfriends. Drug deals. Gang fights. We worship the homeboys and their image, but throw the real gangstas in jail.
K is for kissing kicking knives knowledge knitting hats.
L is for lies. The world is processed through Photoshop and I can't tell what's real and what's not.
M is for the media and how it dictates our lives more than the Bible. M is for makeup that we wear like masks. M is for money and marriage and milk.
N is for naked. And how that's all we are and all we're not.
O is for oppression.
P is for the bottles of pills in the lockbox ever since you overdosed. P is for the pills you're prescribed and the pills you pop anyways.
Q is for the questions your parents ask, but you don't answer.
R is for rehab and for all of your treatment buddies and their nonstop posts on Facebook.
S is for sex. S is for STD's and who has what. And did you know you can get an STD giving a blowjob? S is for skinny and how that's all girls aspire to be anymore.
T is for texting pictures of your tits.
U is for uninvited to that party. U is for unasked to prom.
V is for vintage and the filters on insta.
W is for writing to stop from punching another hole in the wall. W is for writing to take the pain away. W is for writing instead of taking drugs.
X is for xenophobia and how I'm scared of strangers but I should be scared of myself instead.
Y is for you and how that's all I seem to think about anymore.
Z is for zero and that's how many of us can honestly say we love ourselves.

Writing to Save Yourself

Saturday night, I got in a fight with my parents. The screaming match was more than I could handle and memories memories memories were pushing to the forefront of my eyelids. I slipped into my room and quickly realized the futility of tears, so I dug under the pile of clothes that had become a carpet of their own. And I found my wallet. And I left.

I still don't know why I took my wallet.

True to form, they hid the car keys before I had a chance to take them. I walked for a directionless hour along SR-92 headed west. And I was sobbing walking along the curb. Not one car stopped. Not even the ones screaming music from inside the rolled up windows. I laughed. Why did I think cars would stop for a teenager walking alone in the dark? I'm no celebrity.

My shirt was thin, and my hands were cold. And I called but you didn't answer. You didn't call back. You were probably making out with your girlfriend. I just wanted to ask if you could drop off a sweatshirt, preferably with some pockets. Or ask if you could help me find a way to sneak into the church because I hate asking to spend the night.

The headlights were starting to make me self-conscious.

And I thought about how I should have taken a shower before I started this pilgrimage because my hair was sticking up weird.
I laughed because teenagers think they are significant.
But that only made me cry harder.

And I know you can't freeze to death in forty degree weather. But if the grass is wet, and your sleeves are short, you just might.

And I know that you will never know what it is like to have the police called to your own house to assess property damage from punching a hole in your own wall.

Or what it is like to have the police call your cell phone.

And I know, I know. The breakthrough is finding about that connection that's more than brushing fingertips. The breakthrough is reading a raw, bitter post about love when you're feeling raw and bitter yourself. That breakthrough is writing about your sloppy first kiss and getting ten comments about your peers' sloppy first kisses. Writing about LDS general conference that I did not watch. Writing about praying and disappointing two sets of parents.

But sometimes writing is about talking to the computer screen so you don't punch another hole in the wall.

See I want to punch another hole in the wall, but I wrote this instead. Now I'm jogging instead of sprinting. Now my fingers are moving a little faster than when they look for channels on the telly. Now my breaths are a little less jagged and sharp. The music of my heartbeat is a little more soft and a little more even. Like the intro of a ballad.

I didn't write this for you. I wrote this for my heart. She needed a little breathing room and space to talk.

And God laughed.

I say sorry again and again, but it's a word now rendered meaningless to my family due to the accompanying lack of results.

And you can't be "good" at a diet, because that's called an eating disorder... and he's a monkey you can't get off your back.

And we shoot bb's at the moon to spite God and God laughs.

God laughed when I got mono from kissing that night I sneaked out and wasn't supposed to.
He laughed when all of Utah county pretended to be Buddhist for a day just to attend a chalk festival. And on his list of regrets is a missed opportunity to create a chalk festival to celebrate Christ's birth.
God laughs at karma.
When you punched the wall and broke your hand.
When that chick shaved her head. He got the joke.
God laughed when you bought pet mice for $3 apiece when you could catch them in the field across the street for free.

And he cried when my sister asked me to rate my love for her on a scale from one to five, and I said two. Even though it was a joke. It was a terrible joke.

God cried when he watched "The Boy in the Striped Pajamas," but he ridicules "The Titanic."

He turned his back from the Holocaust. Notice I said "from" instead of "on." He did not turn his back on their suffering. He did not turn away because he is an apathetic God. But because he had to stop himself from ending the world right then and there.

He cries when the teenage moms abandon their babies at the park, wrapped in swaddling clothes. Because no matter how many babes he sees, they always remind him of one nearly two thousand years ago with all their potential.

He cried when the girl who hadn't been raped lied about being raped and when the girl who had lied and said she hadn't.

The room had a sink.
The sink was for washing.
The sink was white.

He spends half his time at the sink washing the ugly off of his hands.

So maybe I should start doing the prompts.

P.S.
Jewel

I wrote those nice poems
only because
the honest ones
would frighten you.

It's short and sweet. Sometimes I feel like I have to write these long posts in order to get my points across but she does it all in only a sentence.

I love how the title ties in the poem. The title makes it sound like it should be an afterthought. The substance of the poem coupled with the title sounds like a confession that she was too scared to admit at the beginning of a conversation or in the opening paragraph of a letter, but words that should have been said up front. Like when there's an elephant in the room the whole time you're visiting your parents, and when you are opening the door to leave, you say: "P.S. I eloped with my boyfriend from France. The one that you didn't like. And we had a nice little wedding in Vegas and now I'm pregnant."

It brings up the topic of honest vs. dark. Honest vs. positive. Are these concepts exclusive or inclusive? Can a poem be positive without ignoring the parts that are hard? Or is a truly positive poem coming to peace with the dark and incorporating both aspects of life? Does a nice poem lack substance?

This poem really felt like it was saying all the things that I didn't know how to put into a sentence. When I started my blog, my mom started reading it and she didn't like it. She was impressed that I could write, but she said, "Honey, why don't you write about happy things? Why don't you write about nice things? Why are you dwelling on the negative?"

But sometimes counting the positives on your fingers when you're drowning isn't practical. And you need to address the fact that you're drowning. And sometimes when you get pulled out of the water, you want to talk about it instead of pretending that it didn't happen. Writing about the beauty of the ocean when you're scared to death of getting in the water isn't honest. But it's nice.

Pickup Lines with Promised Results!

• Your ass is round. Like the moon.
• You can't buy melons like those at the store.
• Your hands are soft.
• Shit. Your nose. Is. Lovely.
• You look like that girl in that movie that no one watched.
• Let's kiss under a lamp post so people can watch us take our clothes off.
• Your eyebrows are real nice.
• Do you want me to blow up a ball of air and tie it to a string so you can carry it around?
• I wanna taste your saliva.
• Why don't fish walk in schools? Because they swim in schools! (and other Laffy Taffy jokes)
• I know how to swear in five languages.
• If you go out with me, I won't even make you shave your legs.
• I left my thong in your car for you to remember me by.
• Your lips look like a black person's.
• I named my stuffed animal after you. I sleep with it every night.
• I've been working out my tongue specifically for a time like this.
• I don't know a lot about kissing, but what I do know is to use your teeth.
• Your skin is paler than a skin color crayon. I would have to use a white crayon if I was drawing you.
• I would have to use an orange crayon on you, sweetheart, because of how often you spray tan.
• Your sense of humor is like my mom's.
• Native Americans have seventeen words for coitus and the word "Utah" is one of them.

You're beautiful. *Slap.

I'm original

And I said, "I'm original, I'm original, I promise."

But you pointed to the paintings hanging on the walls of the Louvre and the paintings were stuck in the reflection of my eyes.

And I said, "Wait, wait." So I slid my [leather] backpack off my shoulders, unzipped it hurriedly, and drew out my journal. I opened to my proudest page. Clean, white page. Final draft in pen.

But you listed names like Rothko and Alis Priddy and Devastated Daisy and Devastation Diaries and Grace Kelly and Hazel Grace and Gene Wilder and Dick Tidrow and Syl and Kat Stratford and Esther Greenwood and Joel Kenney and Phyllis Dae Sloan and Joel Barish and nom de plume and Teenwulf and White Rabbit and Reginald Delicious and Charlotte Charles and people who write as effortlessly as they speak.

And I took the names. But I didn't quite know what you wanted me to do with them. So I read them. Over and over and over and over. And I think I'm starting to figure it out.

So then I show you again. I take out my journal. And now it's a little faded. The pages are worn thin. The book is full of the scribbles dancing with the script and skipped lines and crossing out and blurred pencil and smudged ink and messy margins and fingerprints.

You flip through some pages. Point at things you like. And you show me dance videos.

And I think I get it.

How to Die

Instructor: "Ahh, welcome back to our ‘How to Die’ class. Remember to invite your friends and family because, as we all know, you never know when Death herself is going to creep up on you. Ha." Chuckles. "Anyways, today we are continuing working on our final words. I’ll come around and see how you guys are coming along."

Instructor: "'Sex.' Hmm… I like how provocative and bold you are. However, you might want to lengthen it a bit."

Instructor: “Whoa, whoa… A whole paragraph?! You’ll be long dead before you read the eighth line, and people will never understand what you were trying to say. This is your one chance someone will listen to you completely. Your life will have been a complete waste!!”

Instructor: “‘Solve problems as they arise, for I have not, and I have failed.’ Umm. I’m all for teaching your kids lessons, but that should be done before you’re on your deathbed. In fact, how about right now? Also, when everybody is celebrating your life, I don’t recommend reminding them you have done nothing with it.”

Instructor: “No, no, no. This sounds far too rehearsed! It’s supposed to seem as ‘natural’ as possible!”

Instructor: “Ahh, a raised hand. How admirable.”

Me: “Mr. Livingston, what will your last words be?”

Instructor: “Excellent question, although I don’t recommend modeling yours after mine. Mine will be ‘Finally!’ When you have spent all your life preparing for this moment, you haven’t appreciated life to the point where you realize the significance of its passing.”

I walked out of the class. I had no time to prepare for death.

I was too busy living.

A cliche, bitching letter from Life

So you're told over and over again: This is the beginning of your life. This is the ending of the paralysis. But each day you wake up, throw on those predictable boxers your mother bought for you, do your homework the day it's assigned, and sleep the prescribed eight hours. I threw in a girl to provide some variety. The first day you saw her, you knew she was proof of God. Dat ass. Yet you would not be distracted from your studies. You would not experiment with the girl who only wanted to fuck you. You bore.

Bravo. Bravo for the acid kids in their fishbowl. Bravo for the straight A students and their shitty taste in music. Bravo for the writers who are slowly killing themselves one word at a time. Who are saving themselves from the cold broken-hearted reality of dying the unheard drunks on the sidewalk. Bravo, bravo, bravo.

This is where you come in and tell me I should clap for you. And so I stand slowly, and clap reluctantly. An encore. A standing ovation. A drink in hand I have to set on the arm of my chair. Congratulations for your thousands of misunderstandings. Congratulations for your acceptance to BYU. Congratulations for the win you penciled into your notebook. For those nights you stayed in doing homework instead of doing girls. 

And I breathe cigarette smoke into your face halfheartedly, and you wave it away instead of sucking it in. If you were my description of perfect, you would have breathed in the smoke like you were breathing in the scent of love and acceptance and want all rolled into one. Bravo, bravo.

But even though you aren't my idea of fun-loving, you're God's version of religious. Focused. You pray to God day in and day out, on your knees by your bedside table. And I'm told you'll be awarded in heaven for your good works. Well shit, that's great. But try some drugs. Punch some walls. Blast music in your car to turn heads. Sneak out. Add some more tongue into those kisses.

This may sound harsh. But yes, I dropped you headfirst on your first day and I didn't put much faith in you succeeding. Like a godfather, I watched you from afar. I have my principles and those don't include stepping in to warn about the coming heartbreak. About the flu season. Why I'm intervening now, I can't tell you. That Wednesday in May you totaled the car. I keep telling myself you deserved it. Telling myself I liked watching you flounder on your own.

I'm a jealous man, and so I wanted to see the blood seep through your skin like spirits. Liked to see you in red, which your mother never buys with that hair of yours. I was jealous enough to prevent Death from stealing you away from me. She could have made you happy. But you were mine. You were always mine. 

Forgotten.

His writing was recognizable.
His writing.
He was the date with half his side forgotten from the group picture.

A Girl Named Death

Death colored outside the lines.
She broke down the door instead of knocked.
She laughed loudly in the library and skinny-dipped in the sunshine.
She starved herself and shaved her head.

Death comforted the cutters with her lullabies.
Her eyes framed a movie you knew would break your heart.
She told you about human rights abuses and starving children.
Meeting Death made you different.

Death grieved like she had been the one abused.
She laughed like life was beautiful.
She could play video games like no girl I had ever met
And she bungee jumped to get a better perspective.

Death didn't take things for granted.
She kissed like it was the last time she ever would.
She said sleep was the best escape
And the best bed was matted grass.

Death told me ugliness was a state of mind.
She was a ghost and her thoughts were transparent as water.
Her wrist read "Death is peaceful"
As if proving it to herself.

And one time she packed up all eight of her suitcases.
She told me she was going to save the world.
I laughed.
I should not have laughed.

Why bricks are the shit.

So there's this kid in my second period class today. He kept interrupting as if I wasn't talking at all. Bricks don't do that. Interrupt, I mean.

Sometimes I wish you were a brick.

Bricks are straightforward, unassuming. Bricks know what they want. "Maybe" is not in their vocabularies. They can only say "no" and "yes," but they can't elaborate much.

Bricks sit there, almost nodding at you, moved to listen. Maybe they got some daddy issues too.

They SEE.

Bricks make great pets. Sure they suck at fetch, but you don't have to clean up after them much.

Bricks can't lie. What you see is what you get.

Bricks can break windows, but bricks can't break hearts. Sidenote: I don't mean to turn bricks into a metaphor about love, but on the wall of fame, most of the good brick posts mentioned love somewhere in there..

But... (Yeah you knew this was coming)
Bricks don't kiss back.

And bricks make really shitty boats.