Christopher Foster
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Stories (20)
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"Me"
When you go shopping, do you put the cart or buggy back into the proper place or do you leave it in the parking lot for the cart pusher to reclaim? It's a simple question. It isn't illegal to leave the cart in the middle of nowhere, but you also don't gain anything by putting it back in the proper location. When you go to the movie theatre to watch the latest movies, do you pick up your trash or just leave it there for the usher to clean up? Again it isn't illegal to leave the place trashed but what could possibly motivate you to pick up your own rubbish when there are people who are paid to do so.
By Christopher Foster4 years ago in Humans
My Hill
I sat upon the hill looking down at the battle that ensued. I could hear the swords clashing like that of thunder. The screams of the men below were carried on the wind as it gently blew through my hair. The grass felt like soft furs between my fingertips as I ran my fingers across it. Men and horses made their way through the battlefield some stumbling on the bodies of their comrades and that of their enemies. My finger pricked by a small thistle as my hand had glided dangerously close to the prickly plant. A small dot of crimson formed upon my finger as a man was cut deeply by a metal thistle of his own making. I sucked on the small wound and looked to the sky. The sun was bright and the clouds were nowhere to be seen. A perfect day.
By Christopher Foster4 years ago in Poets
Proclamations
A kiss so sweet and heavenly divine. Upon these beggar lips of mine. It is that of a dream come true. That my heart has been graced to know you. If we were to ever part. Surely, it would stop my heart. To not love you is to ask one not to breathe. To ask a man of faith not to believe. Would you beg the sun not to shine? If so I'd turn back the hands of time. I would undo what wrong I thought was right. If only to be with you for one more night. These are but my proclamations of love. Sworn to you and God above.
By Christopher Foster4 years ago in Poets
Quite Sad
It's really quite sad. That look in your eyes. That tinge of madness when I'm not surprised. I know you well. Maybe you don't know me well enough. The lies you sell while acting tough. You're hurt. A howling animal in the night. What I've learned is you'd rather fly than fight. I wish there was nowhere for you to run. Nowhere for you to hide. Then we could talk till it's done, until our tears have dried. Then you'd see. We have healed each other. That I'm no enemy but a loving brother. It's really quite sad. That look in your eyes. How you've become mad and left me with no goodbyes.
By Christopher Foster4 years ago in Poets
I Worry
I worry about myself. I worry about you. I worry about the world. I worry that I will never be enough. I worry that I will let you down. That I will let everyone down. These expectations that I feel that everyone has for me or that I think they have, weigh me down in unimaginable ways. I worry that if I get knocked down enough that the weight of my own failures will crush me. I worry everyday that I will never be someone that you can be proud of. I hunger to hear those words "I'm proud of you." so much so that even after they are said, I won't believe them. I will continue to work, until I hear you say it again and again. I worry it will never be enough. All the good I do. All the good I try to do. It feels as though it will never outweigh my failures. Each misspoken word, action, or inaction is another chain I tie around myself. Binding my insecurities to my heart and continuing the vicious cycle that I will never be good enough. I worry that I am selfish. That I never give enough. That I can always give or do more. I worry that when people look into my eyes that they don't see the same smiling happy social butterfly they once knew, but a more reclusive creature that is too scared to trust, too scared to let their guard down, and invite you into their lives. Even now while you're reading this I worry that I have wasted your time. That I have said nothing thought provoking. That I have not made any sort of impression on you. It is this constant worrying that drives my thoughts. It's what causes my hesitation to do or say things. It wears me down like a river against sandstone. It is this worrying that has turned me into the exact thing I never wanted to be. Someone who is not myself.
By Christopher Foster4 years ago in Poets
