Category Archives: Poetry

what it takes to feel beautiful…

This poem is written in the point of view of a young teenage girl, searching for her beauty, because she doesn’t feel beautiful inside. She doesn’t eat very much or very often, and when she lets her face fall into the palms of her hand, she can’t help but to feel each bone of her face and trace the lines. In these lines, she finds beauty. In the structure of her face, a painting. Making her who she is, and making her feel beautiful.


I like to rest my cheeks in my hands.

Soft and warm.

A contrast to the cold, brittle skin of my hands.

Trace the bones under my eyes,

Uplifted and strong.

I hear this is a quality that beautiful people have.

I like to rest my forehead in my hands.

Trace the bones of my brow,

Lifted from the deep valley of my eyelids.

Slightly curved,

Casting fragile shadows upon my eyes.

A contrast to the pale of my skin.

Beautiful, really.

I like to rest my chin in my hands.

Trace the bones of my jaw,

Defined, jagged.


A contrast to the others.

No one I know has this jaw.

Beautiful, really.

I like to rest my face in my hands.

As I trace my bones

I imagine the beauty that someone might see-

The beautiful person I picture myself to be.


I like to carry a book

I like to carry a book.

Sometimes I read it.

Sometimes I don’t,

I just carry it



It reassures me,

makes me feel like there’s something there.

There is somebody else beside me.

Their thoughts

screaming out at me

from inside of

those pages,

Waiting to be opened up.

So why don’t I open them?





lack on interest.

But I think,

I think that this book,

the book  I carry right now,

I think I will open this one.

Maybe even read it.

Who knows?

And if I do,

when I do,

I’ll tell you.

I’ll tell you all about it.

I remember.

There was a time when I was in love. I knew I was in love.

It was real, in a different kind of way. A way most people don’t understand.

I sometimes try to explain.

It never works.

But it was real.

You talked to me. I remember the first time we talked. I asked you a question, because you looked familiar. You turned red.

You looked at me. I remember the first time you looked at me. You looked at me from across the field. I looked back.

You thought of me. I remember the first time you thought of me. I still remember those words. I wrote them down.

You waited for me. You waited for me to fall in love with you. I remember when you fell in love with me. I fell too.

You walked with me. I lived for those walks. I remember the first time we walked. I told you I would be your walking buddy. You smiled.

You noticed me. And when you did, you made sure I was okay. I would tell you, and you listened.

You listened to me. You not only listened, but you always made it better. I remember the first time that you listened. I listened back. And you told me. You told me everything.

You danced with me. I remember the first time we danced. I had so much fun. We both smiled.

You loved me. Even when I cried. You held me when I cried. And you loved it. I remember the first time I cried. You told me I was beautiful when I cried.

You called me. I waited for those calls. I remember the first time you called me. I asked you why you called. You said you just wanted to talk. I smiled.

You wrote me. I looked forward to those notes. I remember the first note you gave me. It was small. I wrote back. I wrote a whole page.

You prayed with me. I remember the first time we prayed. It was amazing. We grew closer.

You laughed with me. I remember the first time we laughed. It was frolicsome.

You fought with me. I remember the last time we fought. It was scary. I cried.

But that time, I wasn’t beautiful when I cried. And you didn’t love me when I cried.

No longer did you fight with me. Laugh with me. Write me. Call me. Look at me. Dance with me. Walk with me. Talk to me.

But I still pray with you. I notice you. I think of you. I laugh with you, even if you don’t notice.

I sometimes dream of one day laughing with you, listening to you, talking to you again.

I still love you.

But I wonder. Do you still love me?

A corrupt kind of reverence

When we go to Mass,

Why do we cross our arms? Are we in opposition? What are we opposed to? We should be opposed to sin.

Why do we roll our eyes? Are we searching? What are we searching for? We should be searching for God.

Why do we sigh? Are we impatient? What are we impatient for? We should be impatient to receive the Body of Christ.

Why do we slouch? Are we weak? What is our weakness? We should be offering our weaknesses up to God.

Why do we yawn? Are we tired? What are we tired of? We should be tired of submitting to our sinful nature.

But must we really cross our arms, roll our eyes, sigh, slouch, and yawn?


Why don’t we sing? Aren’t we joyful? Aren’t we in the presence of the Lord?

Why don’t we pray? Aren’t we thankful? Don’t we want to return to God his great gift of love?

Why don’t we respond? Don’t we listen? Don’t we hear the Word of God being spoken to us?

Why don’t we go? Are we avoiding something? Are we afraid? Are we too busy?

How can we change that?