Theodore Fally

It’s cold outside the covers–the world is
So he builds his life within these walls
Smothered by the company of certain
Appalled at the thought of trial

“These walls,” he says, “these covers,
they’ve been only friend.”
He uses this to justify watching the rain
From his window.

Outside looking in at himself
so inside is outside his reach.
Steps,
Peaks
He’s told himself he can’t take or attain.
The man who seeks nothing,
Never finds himself within it
He’s not as lost as the raindrops tapping his window pane,
But has never found their peace.

Inside looking outside himself
scared by what outside might bring in
Or release.

He waits there and wonders why.

 

 

Torn Little Boy

Torn Little boy.
Broken down by this world,
like the swishers daddy busts open with his thumbs,
and enjoys when they’re finished.
Rolled zip tight.
He inhales until his eyes are squinted.

He inhales.

And he does this till the advice that’s given
to his only son flops softly from his baritone voice,
and avoids commitment
like he,
or the smoke, livid
and dancing till it dissipates from the air.

Torn little boy.
It just doesn’t seem fair, in his mind,
that after the smoke chokes and daddy’s stern glares
wander aimlessly from place to place;
After momma’s in her nightgown, her arms hugging
her waist; after her screams fill his ears and the smell
of passionless sweat wafts from her room
in haste;
after he hears the loveless advice

Then daddy needs his space.

Torn little boy,
watching his father pace from his life once again
slamming the door on the impala shut
and speeding off. In his wake,
momma weeps till her eyes are singed and unable
to drop another tear.

Then the drinking begins.

Torn little boy,
watching his mother teeter on a fringe, like the threads
of his favorite shirt. His amends with it
his mother and his somewhere father
fall short of the happiness he only
pretends to understand. Better to be naive than to feel
rejection, or the spinning switch of his
finicky parents once again.

Torn little boy.
Looking out the window and wondering who to love.

 

 

© Chris Hampton 2013

 

24 Candles

I wrote this on my birthday (which is in June). I guess I’m a little lat posting it!

Decisions made and freindships lost,
the things I’ve seen on this journey walked,
wisdom beyond my years but goals aloft-
I still must find my way.

Desired dreams have dues and costs.
Friendships garnered.
Season’s crossed.
Faith intact.
Resolve embossed.
I’ll wak the path for change.

The places been and people who’ve,
the respect I’ve earned.
The things to prove.
The path I’ve walked in my own shoes-
Not follow. Make the way.

To those that love and thos that bruise,
for those I left and whome I choose,
the real McCoy or deceptive ruse-
you made me, so, I thnak you.

The path I’ve walked and where I’ve been.
The world I’ve seen.
That place within.
If life is pure as faith, well then-
this journey has been devine.

© Chris Hampton 2013

 

Out The Box

Last night I left home.
I don’t know when I’ll return again.

Maybe when skills honed,
maybe at day’s end

I left in search of nothing.
Maybe I’ll find that then.

I left wanting everything but-
maybe that’s found within.

Last night, I left home.
I hope to find a new one then.

 

© Chris Hampton 2013

 

A World, Remembered

I lost this world, then found it back.
I can’t seem to lose it forever. I can’t seem
to untether myself, and leave it all behind,
However.
In those moments of misplacement,I find
the mind works likes it’s never
No bars that hold, nor restrictive
rules, freedom’s fairest weather

I lost this world.
It found me again, back with all its pain and
trivial pleasures. I hade within,
with staunch disdain for freedom that can be measured.

I lost this world.
But here it stands, unscathed and spinning on.
I can’t seem to move along from that and,
breathe more than a glimpsing gasp of
where I must belong

I lost this world.
It found me, yes.
But hopefully, not for long.

© Chris Hampton 2013

 

MFA Season

It’s the end of the holidays and the middle of the grad application season, meaning my anxieties never sleep. Since we last talked, I’ve woke in the middle of the night to write down Christmas gift ideas, and revision plans for stories. I’ve finished Rusty Spoons and Broken Bottles (for those of you who cared). I’ve written another. I’ve applied to Cornell and Syracuse, second guessing the quality of my work the whole way. I need my WordPress family–I’ve been neglecting you. Since I’ve been gone, I’ve been nominated for two awards (which I will accept in the next few days). I’ve made new years resolutions, and committed myself to be a more avid reader. All of this for you.

As you know by now, my hope in writing, and creation, is that I can connect people. I would like to show us all the common bonds we have as humans, the emotions that make us one. To do this, I have to be a pretty freaking good writer. I’m not there yet. Right now, I’m still starring at a screen full of words wondering where to begin, if I’m good enough, will they see my vision or will I be a martyr. Jesus. I’m only 24.

They say to whom much is given, much is expected. I’m hoping it works in reverse. I expect tons from myself. I hope you all hold me to the same standards. I hope that this work I am putting in will give me much in the way of recognition, and success, but above all I’d like to gain a platform to speak to you. If we are just writing for selfish reasons, what do we leave our kids?

Without further adieu. I will begin to post (as quick as I can get them up) some of the work I have been obsessing over culminating in a finished Rust Spoons, and a new story I’d like you all to help me with, called Love Jones. I hope you can see my growth, and even if you don’t, I’d like, above all else, for you to give me honest feedback. Thank you and enjoy

 

The Reason

I recently read a story that inspired me. I wrote it down and gave it back to you. I feel it’s justice, the right thing, the essence of humanity. We’re pack animals–me and you–we need each other. Our dreams become closer, our songs are sung louder when we use our human brethren. That community, we need it. Our existence, that we swear is marked by the differences we create, is, in actuality, tied to the emotions we all feel. And we all feel them.

I’ve never been a stay-at-home mom, but I understand what joy is. So, when you speak of it looking into your children’s eyes, I’m but a turned corner away. I don’t understand your circumstance, but I understand your emotion. It connects us.

As a writer, my hope is to give this world itself uncensored, to capture pictures of the lives we lead and the emotions that spin within them. Those emotions, that, for all of us are the same.

If you’ve ever wondered why I copy-cat your follows, like and comment as you have on my page, feel your story with depth and compassion, or speak to you like we’ve been friends for years, I guess that is why. I am of you, and you of me. Your voice strengthens mine, and in a weird way, we carry each others flag. I’ll wave yours, if you wave mine, together, our voice will be heard. When I write, I hope some piece of my collection of words resonates in your life. It should, because these stories are microcosms of the world around us, connections to characters we never met, but understand.

It’s no coincidence. I’ve taken these characters from you. I’ve stolen your anxieties and put them in short stories, sampled your essence and wrote it into poetry. I’ve given you back what I see in you. If you find it extraordinary–it’s because you are.

 

Tracy’s Song: An Ode to Perseverance

Yes, you inspire me. I hope you know this is for you. Keep fighting.

 

“Give me hope or give me dope doc,

I don’t need to know the odds, these clocks

ticking all around me

they remind me of the time.

They remind me, so inclined I am

to sit and reminisce, what’s behind me

seems like bliss

compared to the months ahead.

 

Give me hope or give me dope, shed

light on all my fears, these said

years the clocks have ticked away,

I swear won’t be my last.

 

Give me hope or give me dope

Just, please, don’t let me pass.

 

Give me hope or give me dope, I’ve

made promises to my sons eyes.

I swore I’d see him rise before I fall

I won’t be made a liar

I won’t be broken by clocks and cues

signaling my time is nearing end, no bruise

no lump–not you

NONE will tell me different.

 

Give me hope or give me dope

I’m on a mission.”

 

© Chris Hampton 2012

 

Mountains

I wasn’t going to give this one up, but since I love you all, here it is

Uphill climbs, with these scribbled lines

You see, I’ve put them on my back

I’ve kept this world upon my heart

Made it heavy

Then wrote with that.

 

My dreams are yours

my life, infact

Has been spilled across these pages

Uphill climbs

Does what’s on my mind,

Do justice to predating sages?

 

In the war of words

Where do I stand?

Amongst the greats?

I’ve worn my hands

Shed some tears–I’m just a man

climbing with these lines

 

A Caged Bird, Singing A Different Song

I understand why the caged Tiger won’t mate

Why the trapped cheetah won’t race

Souls weren’t meant for restrictions

The caged bird sings

But I’d argue, his song is different

 

I understand it

Dammit!

 

We were all meant to be free!

We needn’t plan it, or ask permission

 

You can’t tame the ocean’s waves

and ask them to show glee

If you get that–you get me

I’m just a caged bird singing

Singing my song till I’m free