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)
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?
A Beast Among the Flames
Lighting strikes the open plains setting the dry grass ablaze. Fires start to rise from the hill tops in the distance like signals. I can feel the heat from the flames that blaze only yards from me. The sweet scent of wet grass resonates against the smell of burning earth.
Smoke melds with the dark clouds above, forming a fondness for each other. I can feel my chest rising with heavy breaths as I prepare my mind. This is either the end or a start to another day. Kneeling on one knee I press myself up and stand.
I look around me as the world before me looks as if hell is bursting from earth. In the chaos I find serenity, for I am built for this, trained for this.
I finished my indulgence of my surroundings and pull my sword from the ground.
I raise it with my right hand pulling it near my chest. The point of my blade stands five inches above my head. I close my eyes and start to rhythmically pound the armor of my chest with my other hand.
"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.