Hi, My name is Micah Park Biffle, I am the author of ' A Man's Traveled Heart,' I am a Veteran who found in understanding of my self 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. (I AM SLOWLY MOVING OF BLOGGER< FOR NEW STORIES PLEASE CLICK THE "MEDIUM" LINK TO THE LEFT)
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."
Thank you for reading this! If you enjoyed this and want more, grab a copy of
"Let your umbrella unfold, dance beneath the rain when others won't shelter you with the echoes of love my dear." Her mother said as she kissed her upon the forehead.
Sophia looking up at her mother smiles as she holds her pink umbrella above her head. Her mother, raising up from the kiss takes Sophia by the hand and they begin to walk. Sophia, only five and her father off on a business trip, her mother becomes lonely.
And so they walk, they walk through evenings, mornings, dusk's and dawns. Watching the graceful colors of sunsets and sunrises. Sophia's mother teach's her to admire the colors before them. Not just the wonderful vibrant colors, but also the dull. The gloomy streaks of darkness.
For everything has a purpose in this world. From the thunder storms to clear skies. Sophia, holding her mother's hands as they walk through the rain looks and up and asks, "Mother, why do you cry? Do the colors of this clouded night …
A Pocket Flower
I breathe upon the cold morning glass as I look out into the open plains of the country. And with my finger I draw a heart splitting in two, it quickly fades. I look back out into the world and design a new one.
I let my senses roam wild as imagination rushes from my head like water. Flooding my view with bountiful ideas. I see titans clashing, gods fighting, I see mysteries lingering in the lonely mist. I see monsters creeping from the distant moons and music flow gently from the darkened woods.
I watch golden leaves fall as the sun begins to rise. The soft tone of frozen grass begins to sparkle. I see birds thrust from their nests and chirp to the vast outreaches of nature. I am overwhelmed by what I see, and I smile.
I breathe again upon the cold morning glass. But this time, I draw a single heart held together. I let it fade as the last, but this time I breathe upon the glass once more. I observe the heart I drew with much thought, much intrigue.
I found myself walking in the snow, my head aching with a sharp pain. I feel the back of my head, there is something crusted upon the rear of my skull. I dig my nail carefully into it. I can feel the crust collect beneath my nail like dirt.
As my feet trudge through the sixteen inches of snow I look to my nail and there in my nail is blood. Dried cells of my body. Upon seeing this I become confused with worry. I place my hand once again upon my bloodied skull and began to examine it.
I slide my index finger like the bristle of a broom, back and forth trying to see what wound had allowed such blood upon me. But after several seconds of feeling about, I find nothing. No scratches, no lacerations, nothing.
My worried confusion musters down to mere confusion. I rub my eyes as I am strangely held with a slight daze. As if I have been interrupted from a deep sleep. And the evening air is not helping my situation.
I am comfortably wrapped for a day trip, but the su…