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.
Brush upon a canvass, creating a brake-less variety of
colors. Coating the moments, one feels branchless in the world. Trying to find
where to plant thoughts like seeds and become the brightness one needs so
But what business is left to do when one feels of a walking
Covering all basis of the damned, feeling breathless, almost
brainless in the wandering of life. Ceaseless does one feel when colors do not
blend. When thoughts become an eager chorus of claim-less doubts. Skirting the
very breath of death, raising a blade in wishing for clearness. But only to
feel as if one’s heart has become daftness to even the oldest closeness.
Disconnected in self, darkness becomes so dauntless one
feels nameless in self. Puttering on the edges of thoughtless swamps. Drowning
in pitiful dimness of the rash and quivering in the coldness of regret. Running
from the shadows that one has created in conscious toils of constant census of
a callus witness.
What does one do when crudeness of thought is all that
blazes the fields of hope? Burning in endless doubt, craving the dreamless arid
deadness that is misery. Sucking on the fruitless attempts to find what will
draw only fringe-less hope. Because something is better than nothing, than
becoming headless among the living. Suffocating in the helpless cries till one
becomes too sore to open their eyes.
Building dull justice in the capturing of torment upon self.
Bleeding dry from lawless dribble one sets out to cast blame to others. Leaving
one thinking they roam free in the likeness of all. Creating limbless thoughts
crying wolf from the luscious lips of suffering.
Creating oldness in what is young, acting naive in the wills
of self. As if no thought, no flesh, no temptation is the fault of self.
Becoming drawl in the production of self, but acting as if one is of better
status with thankless lips. Connecting of false tries of stringless words as
stiffness of faith draws one tearless of one’s own exodus.
What does one have left in the dubious loss of insanity in
the fallacious calls of pitiful lustfulness?
How does one rescue thyself in the malicious attacks upon
Thank you for reading, have you ever let yourself become chaotic in ill thought of self?
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 breath settles upon the mirror. Now, with breath upon this mirror, I watch, as it fades almost instantly. As if disdained upon my presence. Only to leave in an almost translucent outline upon the glass.
And again, my thoughts wander 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 naturalism can create such perfection mixed with such disaster? Playing upon the good and bad…
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.
And on each night of his return, he sat at that foot o…
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…