Hi, My name is Micah Park Biffle, I am the author of ' A Man's Traveled Heart,' I am a Veteran who found his way back through writing. I consider myself an architect of the imagination. Here you will see my creations come to life. My short stories, poems, my thoughts, and a little touch of my life.
She was told to stop, she was told she would amount to nothing. That she is but a flimsy child withering to her imagination. A foolish heart with only a hand for disappointment.
And these words, these thoughts played like a song on repeat. Only thirteen and the world seemed to rage against her. It felt as if the world had built a wall she was never destined to climb. Even her own friends seemed to join in in the thoughts of her faults. Of creating a gossip of distortion of who this girl was.
Thorns is what this world is she thought, thorns is all it has. The budding of roses is never to be. They are cut the moment they try to spring to the sun. Only to be brought to the ground and trampled upon like dirt. Crushed with every passing moment, soon, to no longer be a rose. But a crumbled dream among the rest of the world.
She found no love in her dream, in her wishes, her prayers. For even her parents were not around enough to praise her. Both too busy succumbing to their own vices, their own depression. Faltering to the whims of their flesh and ignoring the desires of the life they created. Leaving this girl to be a dusted canvass left for only a few to see who she truly is.
And though the world lay against her, laying brick after brick upon her chest. And though black tongues sickly twist a verbal vocabulary of putrid lies. She found herself dreaming wide, dreaming beyond the worlds of one at such age should dream.
From the moment she was born, her heart was drawn to the magical toils of dance. Her eyes would glisten as a baby upon seeing her first ballerina. The pink tutu, the shimmering of its sparkles left her in wonder. A smile would crest with great passion as she watched the ballerina dance.
Standing on the tips of her toes, raising her arms in a proud presentation of elegance. All was utterly magical to this girl. The capturing of fluid motions while blending with the tones of a piano. As if to be creating a living color, a color so vibrant, only the soul can see such glory.
Such fascination led this girls heart to fill with adrenaline. The rush to be one, the rush to become something extraordinary to whom many believe she should not be.
And though this world is harsh, and many ignore her effort to become great. She held back no ounce of sweat, no ounce of passion to become what she wanted to become. Day and night, she would lock herself in her room and dance as if she is already living her dream. She made her own tutu out of old clothes her mom had given her. Though it was not pink, but ragged and made of old bland hues.
She saw herself to be beautiful in her creation. Her heart left her no choice but to do what she loved. And with each nigh after school, after dinner, she would dance. She would glide with spirit, with devotion to her dream.
Even among the sleeping of her parents, she would wake in the night carefully. And she would dance in the silence of the moon. And finally, at the age of thirteen, when all seemed hopeless. She received a letter from the most prestigious school of dance. Her heart leapt from her chest and her palms became sweaty. She rushed inside screaming for her parents. Both were mindlessly stretching their minds to drinks and TV.
But still, they lept from the couch, but only out of fright. They turned to their daughter as she ran with the letter stretched out in one hand. Confused, they looked at her as she asked them to open the letter. And so the mom did, not even knowing what the letter was. After it was opened, the mother began to read it out loud.
The daughters heart beat rapidly, her palms sweating from fear, from excitement. Watching in silence as her moms lips coerced the forming of words. With each word read, the daughter grew anxious.
And after only a few moments of reading. The words she had been waiting for were about to be read. But before her mom read the last part of the letter, she asked her mom to hold her. And so she did, she lifted her from the ground, though no longer a baby, they both found comfort in this moment.
And in the last few sentence the mom realized what this letter was, and a tear fell from her face. The fathers hands trembled with excitement, and placed them on the back of the moms shoulders. But before the mom finished reading the letter, she dropped it, and instantly the daughter jumped from her arms and grabbed the fallen letter.
"What does it say mom, what does it say?" as she holds the letter up to her mom.
The mom placed her hands on the daughters face and knelt down. Tears flowed like steady rain, but in silence. She kissed her daughter upon her lips and said,
"You made it honey, they want you to dance for them."
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Here, in front of me stands a mirror. Its gleams with pristine cleanliness as I drag my eyes faithfully along its edges. Wondering, what purpose does it truly have, is this but another view of what I am?
Searching Is Not The Answer
I retract my eyes from its edges allowing sullied breath to sink into my lungs. I release this breath with an odd sense of curiosity as it breath settles upon the mirror. Now, with breath upon mirror, I watch, as it fades almost instantly. As if disdained upon my presence. Only to leave an almost translucent outline upon the glass.
And again, my thoughts wonder upon the condensation of my breath. And in watching it fade, I ponder, with intellectual eagerness , am I but not a breath from the universe, from God? Slowly fading upon the reaction of molecules and the designers final stroke of the brush.
Am I not but a reflection of what another has drawn, for what naturality can create such perfection mixed with such disaster. Playing upon the good and bad like…
The Scar of War And His Suicide To Escape It
He returned with a heavy heart. With a fierce storm raging in rain, thunder, and dark clouds. Memories of war collided beneath his chest. His lost brothers he could feel in the very bones of his soul. Nothing felt the same in this place he called home.
No words could describe the surmountable anguish that tore each second at his mind, creating a vast chasm. Loneliness slowly consumed him. Leaving him branded as a mental case, coming unhinged to reality. Drowning in the constant flavor of hops. Leaving no moment to be sober. Covering the storm with another, that if the fog became to thick to see, then his pain did not exist.
Flooded with anxiety of what he left behind in the chaos of war. He could not escape the nagging of all the thoughts he prayed to forget. Tarnished he felt, guilty, burdened, he felt far from a hero. Though each friend, each member of his family embraced him as one.
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A Moment In the Middle East
A scorching sun canvasses the grounds. Flesh becomes its victim, sweat pours with no end. As if envious in seeking air. Eyes watchful of the distant, heads on a swivel. Hearts race in anticipation, crowds walk as adrenaline pumps.
The smell of gun powder stifles the nose. Tight grips upon steel, chambered brass. Sands flood the lungs, faces smeared in exhaustion. Thirst grips the throat, thoughts of home fumble the mind. Focus, focus, focus.
Distant shots, a setting sun, strange beauty comes to life. Barren lands seeping in anger, pointless in attempt to save. Lost, young, raged in empty hours of this land. Brothers shoulder to shoulder, but for what?
The eyes become useless as night arises from its chambers. Stars shower the blackened sky, the moon flaunts its elegance. Eerie becomes the view, shadows dancing between street lights and stars. Wind gusts with a warm kiss.
Now hues of green become the view. Skewed in perception but eyes trained in this moment…