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)
This earth is no placed to be fixed, no place to be at a single
point. Ah, the wonders that lie ahead. A nomad must a heart be. To truly
embrace the eclectic sanctuary that is the ever expanding universe. Spinning us
around and around a hundreds of times a year. Creating a connection to
something that could boil us an instant if we drew too close. Frightful is this
and if caught in a sudden stop, we would fling from the comfort of our grounds
and we would burn like the stars.
This danger excites the heart.
It pierces the simplicity of boredom when one finds the utmost danger in the
utmost simplistic scenarios. And from those minut thoughts of tickling fear of
adrenaline, blossoms knew growth for adventure. Seeking the ends of each cliff,
only to leap and find yourself soaring among the clouds.
For today, breath could be
taken away. A poison could scatter among the air, snuffing out the beauty that
is nature. Consummating death to all, cutting burdens of many spoiled hearts of
their easy issues. No more would you hear frustration over the forgotten items
at the store. No more would the echoes of pity spill into the delicate ears of
the soul. No more would tunneled eyes of anger find home among broken
Silence would lay upon the
earth as does a feather upon a bird. Fluttering to the whims of what it cannot
control, but being a part of something so bold. But that is not what is, at
least not in the present of what is now. For now, I spring my heart to the
outlandish, to the unknown. I frolic in the winters for something hidden,
something spectacular beneath all the frost.
Finding grace in even the most
dead and dull blades of grass. The overwhelming sense of comfort as I can walk
back to the confines of my home and feel cold no more. What blessings we have
created with such magnificent minds.
The ever-tantalizing voyage of
thought never even caresses the end of it all. Incomprehensible is the thought
of the end. Even in the sudden death of a loved one, many act still as if time
swoons them with lemniscate of life. Leading them to loiter in the agony and
bleed their soul to what is gone. Bringing resentment to self, to life. Drawing
dark eyes into their now empty home. Preying among the soft whispers that tell
them to move on.
much have we created, and I wish to taste it all. To become fervor in the ideas
of the simple, to allow myself to build the most complex thoughts. Designing
beyond reality, at least what cannot be reality of today. What sadness finds me
when lips form apathy in the daily.
habits that go no further than what was yesterday. Cold does a soul become of
such acts, madness will
find the mind. And not the madness that transcends one to
the mountains of the heavens. But madness that leads one to become the idle hands of the devil.
Lacerating the heart of even a page of hope. Brewing up sores that cause pain
even in the waking of the eyes.
earth is no excuse to be dissatisfied, for many even in the most ill of life's.
Find more excitement, than a
man upon a golden crown.
Thank you for reading, want more inspiring and soul riding words like this?
A Summer Bird's Winter Perch I watch this lonely bird chirp upon a slopping branch. Its feet wrapped firmly around the thin finger of bark. As I watch, I commiserate its position. Sitting there, alone, singing with no others to listen. Speaking I assume, to itself. Maybe contemplating its unfortunate circumstance. For the rest had already left for the winter. If I am not mistaken it was only a few days ago that I watched a flurry of birds dart by. Their wings flapping against the brisk wind collectively. Not a single one appeared worried of their journey. Their shadows crawled quickly across the empty streets during a fall evening. I watched them pass by like a feather floating down stream. I couldn't help but wonder, how long must they fly? What winds must they fight, what elements must they battle against? All must be against them as is every moment in time is against us all? Yet they fly forth to the heat of earth. Dependent upon their survival but, what
The Taste of Love, Will It Ever Be Mine? When will I find my lips upon the sweet taste of love? Lost to its scent like the aromal smell of roses upon skin. Will there be an end, beneath an apple tree buried next to my other half? Or will I drown in the soiled pity of my heart as whiskey stains my veins? For I find the misery of myself to be a dull company, but yet its tingles with addiction. And I draw my eyes close to the empty halls of the damned. Screaming for peace but always find myself chocking on pride. Lost in a dense fog I created in the heat of breath upon my frozen heart. Distant am I, in the reaches of tears. For they have no existence in the forefront of my mind, nor heart. Some may call me hollow, lackluster in the dreams of my own thoughts. What is one without the acceptance of tears, without the bravery to step into the engagement of vows? How does one truly go beyond his own vicious habits if there lies no other to call them out? I hear my soul whispe