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)
The tapping of thoughts, the eagerness for them to flow. To break the walls from your broken heart and become full. To escape the meddling of their existence.
Stifled in their exuberance for far too long. They wish to be heard, to be felt, to be open to the world that some wish never to breathe.
But that I say, is because those are the ones, who contract their dreams to size of their nails. To listen with anxious appeal, never to dig them from the ground. To leave them behind the walls of fear. Only to have them tickle the senses of life, from time to time. To have them whisper like frightened children from the torment of monsters beneath their bed.
Thoughts bring much joy and much pain, but one who traps them like foul rodents. Will never find them to be joyous. They will only pout with black tongues and tears of tar. Sticking to a narrative so vicious, the sound of rats gnawing in hunger upon flesh will seem pleasing to one. A narrative so ugly, they will live it as if it is their breath. Believing each thought as if it will bring new birth. But only to be dragged like the decaying damned to hell. To cut them from the freedoms of free will. Leaving them fruitful in lies and vile to truth.
They smell wretched to the soul as they linger in the haste to cut the dangling of thought, that taps, taps, taps on top of their noggin.
If you hear the tap, tap, tapping of thought. Do not close the shutters, the doors, and the windows. Listen with curiosity, but not with blindness in attempt to listen. For each thought can bring truth, but others bring truth from lies, lies that breaks one honest breath. That shatter, and leave one drifting to the waves of the sleazy, the immoral.
Creating a miserable abandoned facade of ones self. Perverting the senses of thought, acting as if one is worthless. That the world is nefarious, filthy, and impure in living. That judgement in collection is righteous. That others are the bringers of pain, oppression, and the damned.
But be not one whom locks away thoughts and listens in blindness for the temptation of blame, of pity, and pain. Be one that opens the flood gates with ship at hand, holding the helm with bravery and starch.
Be free in the action of thought, but we wise in which thoughts to bring action to.
Do you give the right thoughts attention? What is something you tell yourself that you know you shouldn't? Let me know in the comments, maybe some one can help you find a way through it.
The Blameful Two The world broke as their hearts bled the shadows of their misery. Seeping upon the world, flooding with the scars of agony. Their eyes trembling beneath the moonlight as their blood stained hands shimmer. Their lips sewn as each is caught in a lie. Both bare, exposed to their duality. Their curtains drawn thus unmasks the bodies they have slain. The skeletons of truth dragged through the spoils of deceit. Each, unwilling to speak. Their cheeks flush in rose petals. Their skin taut to the anxiety of their arrest. They are now the victims of themselves and each the other. Two hell's preached in the underbelly of their weakness. The fraudulent thought in avoidance of pain. And now they stand as nude as the beginning of life, Adam and Eve. Shaking, they are without words. Silent, bearing only tears that fall to the blood soaked floors. The dark whirlpools of hypocrisy. Neither is without sin and neither is without murder. Their souls weep dearly a
The Moles Never Learn 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 tr
The Choice of History There lies an entrance, a red door to a place far different from any other. Where magic is real, time is alive, but love is dead. It is a place of desolation and pain. A place where blood flows from rivers and mountains are built of death. It is a place so horrible, the door has been sealed shut. Locked for all eternity, a place once flourished with bountiful colors, a place where ever growing thoughts and wonder once pranced like dear through meadows. But like anything, there comes a time of destruction. Where city floors were leveled, trees were chopped, and hope was a lost. A time when everything ran its course and something new must take its place. A time when death lives and life is but a drip of water falling from a distant cloud. But not all is lost, though the entrance is locked, hidden from the eyes. It can be found by the heart, by the vision of faith. It can be brought from its slumbering chambers if only one dares to find it. To l