Micah Park Biffle

Fear No Dragon  Eyes glaze in the echoes of yesterday, the failures, the wins, the losses, and the gains. A heart protruding, not only in the shell of thorns, but flowers. Piercing through a chest of inevitable pain and sorrow, as any breast.  A conquering will to achieve the unthinkable though held to the brims of misery. Casting the vibrancy of joy, letting it sink like mist and fill the veins of harmony. Feeling no fear in the sight of a dragon. Pulling teeth of the mighty of beast as if they are weeds to a garden. Using the scales as armor, lifting the heart in the acquiring of wings. Letting no meat go to waste, allowing no mistake to go without resolution. Purging the head of a mask that bears heavy weight, feeling the release of the rotted, the ill and the damned. Rising in the flames of faith, of hope, and talent.  Trumpets sing in the triumph over suffering. Overthrowing the masquerade that bled from the walls of the mask like venom from fangs....

The Grief of Love  Grief it may bring, the sad echoes of the broken. Like dead trees in the sulking of winter rains, with no leaves to bear, only the skeleton at which they clung to. The empty soils of tears and the bleeding of a broken heart. The screaming of the chest leaving one open to the voices of the shuttered ghosts of the flimsy, at the unappointed hands of desolation. Eyes of declining sunrises, only to be kempt by vapors of the dejected view at hand. Poured in the distressed memories of sorrow stirred in the fading hopes of soulful thoughts. Like the black cat in the crossing of the street, one conveys their superstition to not allow it to pass. So their days are lived in the anxious of what shall never proceed further than their own mind. Unwilling to fetch the bones that held together their heart. Leaving their sorrowed soul to the transfer of agony. Experiencing the howls of who they once were as it is ripped from them, like calf is taken for the joy of me...

Problems Are Welcomed  Where to start in this continual world?  So many choices and so much to do, but it feels as if there is little time. But does time not become unrestrained when we become captured by that which finds joy in our heart? Do we not disappear into the activities that bring us jubilation and separate our happiness from our burdens, our worries? So quickly time can pass when one is tinkering in the bliss of soulful pleasure. Whether it be the striking of strings or the writings of words, or maybe, even the carving of wood. But so much is accomplished in this enchanted thrill of self. Much sorrow controls our decision, or at least, we allow it such power. Worry forms in the aging of our time, slowly cultivating the teething wars of anxiety. We string our problems like webs, living on them, stepping across each as if they will fade upon avoidance. We act as if no others bear these webs as do ourselves.  That problems bear no reason but ...

A Bitter Mans Reminder I peer my weary head from the stables of my thoughts. Thinking of the mess that I have created within. As I think, I turn my sorrowed eyes toward my window. Looking through it, I see the sunrise gently cresting over the horizon. But all I can see is a smear of colors, oranges, blues, reds and earth tones. Muddley separated like oils to a puddle. I squint my eyes to focus deeper into the present beauty that births itself to this morning. But like myself, my window is stained, unkempt with grim and grease. I feel myself become sightly disdained to my current status. So like any, whom become uncomfortable in themselves. I lean to the opposite side of my bed and pour myself a warm settled glass of bourbon. A slosh of bourbon escapes from my glass as my hands quiver. I grunt, with no desire to clean my accident. I raise the glass to my lips and stare at the still ever existing hues of light. A small smile escapes me, but it is quickly taken by sadness. Be...

The Ego of Man This ego, this thing, this voice that pleasures in the destruction of self. It whispers with naive tendencies. It tells you to hide, when you are shy. It speaks that you are to weak, to frail to speak up, that doing so, you will look a fool. That you will become the outcast like a lame child to war. This ego, it inflates the ideals of man. Pleasuring it self with pain, or the eccentric greed of flesh. Telling one to dress in attire to be presentable when one is working to sweat. It tells the fragile ego of a man, to strain himself, though injury may incur. It tells the woman, her hair is one inch too short, one inch too long. No man will adore such a look, change it quick. It tells the woman, that her make up is too much, to little. It tells them to look pretty, though she already is. This ego, it pulls the heart of man, like oceans pulled by the moon. Often it spreads itself like a virus, undetected, recognized as a simple protein of the body. Only later, t...

A Master Piece of Beauty  This distant feel calls from the stars. A strange but warming sensation, my heart beating in a fluttered pen of wings. My gut, twisted, but warm; I feel, what one would say, nervous and happy. It feels as if the stars are being flirtatious in with their presence. Turning cheeks and batting eyes, and I, no thought on how to react. I blush, turning my eyes to the ground like a child nervous upon his first kiss. My skin, feels light, almost as if its pulling me to the heavens. A wisp of air catches my cheeks and I am warmed by a smile. I pursue in pleasure of the moment, though my tongue quivers in anxiety. I am lost for words, for the beauty I am presented before my tired soul. Is elegant, its vibrant, its.....unspeakable. Why has it revealed itself to me? I am but just another soul seeking fortitude among the cold and lonely snow. Following trails of footsteps before they are taken by the rain. Washed away, never to be seen again, fleeting to t...

My fading Words I don't know where these words will bring me. I know not if they shall ever be more than scribbles upon a canvass. I know nothing of what they shall ever be, I merely spill what I feel and move on. But what I do know, is these words are what gives me hope, faith, and resilience to my ever dissolving body. My words may be only echoes that shall only be spoken till death has claimed me. My words may become like that of a forgotten book to the halls of a library. Covered in dust, bridged in the empty silence. As these thoughts cross me like a stream upon my skin. I begin to worry, for my lineage is at threat of the fading winds of my lungs. I am dreadful of what shall come of me, as these days are only quickening their pace. I see myself age with each passing day as does fruit. My words, mimicking my decaying breath. Slowly becoming nothing more than vaped and in-congruent sentences. Held in the underlining of my misery, pleading in the secretive archives ...

One More Day I say One more day I say, as tears fall upon my chest. My heart overwhelmed in the stresses of the daily. Scrapping by as bills gnaw at the waist of my heart. I can only hope, that some day, these anxious days shall be behind me. That I will no longer gasp for the air of serenity, for peace of mind. That I will be able to rise from my bed and no longer feel as if I am sunken in a pit of sand. Where days will no longer drag on in the worry of uncertainty, of restless thoughts of, will this be the month I collapse? Will this be where all of what I am becomes nothing more than a pitiful surrendering sack of fragile bones? But one more day I say, as I hold dearest to my pillow. Crying in silence as I fear my weakness to shake will hinder me friendship. That I will be but a spoiled painting one purchases only out of the kindness of their heart. As one would buy from a child.    But one more day I say, as I look to grey clouds that eagerly posture themselve...

The Travels of Barren Darkness Why do I find myself between these insensate states of lull?  These heavy lethargic waves hold me breathless with each moment. My shore appears further and further as I struggle to swim myself to its hold. Many speak of this feeling as a haze, a dark cloud strangling their thoughts till they cease the want to think. Leaving them barren to guilt, feasting on sadness as if that is all there is to set upon their plate.  Their tears fall with each meal and hydration of the soul becomes forgotten. Truthfully, I believe many, such as myself, find a strange comfort in this distant field of sorrow. We enjoy the encrusted trees that wilt to even the slightest breeze. We find an odd beauty to the screaming of soils.  The iridescent lighting holds us mesmerized. The moon gazed in the infestation of darkness delights our creative will to build something from it.  Though we may plunge to the deepest caves of this grievous land...

The Angst of Success and Popularity There is this angst to complete it now. To bring forth the riches that others posses. To force ones self into the putrid greed of material. To breathe in the vile waves of the rotten and live in the physical. I am saddened by this wish of existence. This existence to find one in the overwhelming need to present ones self as if to be a king or queen. But know nothing of how to delegate their actions, their emotions. They hold dear to show fashion, that supposedly makes them tingle, makes them smile. But dreary is the possessor of the concrete, the possessor who lives for nothing other, than the popularity of self. Shadows rot the cavities of their soul, but they speak of it not. They latch image, an image that is baked in the sugars of man. Only to be swallowed by the naive, the young, the reckless. The teachers of wisdom, the elders of experience, and ears to listen, have been plucked. Few gardens grow the willingness to be patient, to l...

An Unfortunate Story   His slumber is deep, his heart is light. But in the midst of a midnight hour, a knock reaches his door. He quickly wakes from the resounding sound of the knock. His eyes slowly adjust to the pitch black surroundings. He turns to the left side of his body, reaching into the darkness feeling for a candle. In his blind state upon the dark night, he finds the candle at the edge of his night stand. His steady but somewhat worrisome tact, he almost knocks the candle from its rightful place. But he catches it with the embrace of his index and thumb. He reels it in with slight struggle and sits up in bed.  Again, he hears the knock. His head promptly turns toward the noise. He stills himself as he listens for the knock once more. But it ceases, and as the silence coats his home in an eerie hold. He leans to his left once again and opens the drawer to his night stand. A distinct sound of old wood composes itself from the drawer.  Onc...

No Longer The Hollow Doll She is no longer the hollow doll that sat upon her shelf. Those tired eyes that caved with empty darkness no longer curse her. She sits no more lonely in the corners of her room. Fidgeting at the strands of her hair. She now lathers her mane in the warmth of water and wondrous grace of castile. Her eyes glow with the brilliance of candy apple green. Her lips coated now in the blush of red. She wears her shoulders with confidence. Her chest swells with wind as each breath is inhaled with courage, as well as exhaled in spirit. Her skin is no longer the complexion of a paled witch. Nor does it flake of the dead as if to be the home of the deceased. It no longer crawls with irritation of pestering itch. It holds now an amber haze, it glistens in under the sun as it is kissed by rain. It lives upon her as if she is held by a god of bronze. Her walk no longer swamped in the eager thoughts of meekness. Her strides reach with perfect poise. Each step peel...

The Hollow Horrors Of Melancholy  I close my eyes in rest. But I am no fool to what shall find me in my slumber. For my viscous melancholy has the say in my dreams. It has suffocated the colors that once flourished in the springs of my dreams.  It has coiled its leather body around the serene. Strangling the geysers of my imagination and I run dry of design as I seek to be clean. This demon, be it the spreading of the deranged, of my decaying brain. It flairs its wings and parades it fangs with each sleepless night at the strike of twelve thirteen.  Its eyes, darker than any hue of ink you have ever seen. Its breath like the heat of candle held to close to flesh. Its screeches as if it too, has become the victim of the horrific. Of the wicked workings of sadness and the obscene.  I would find no surprise to see that which haunts me. Is but another running from their horrors, but they have drowned to the cursed ravine. Now they haunt others for the ...

Swing From The Willow  Swing from the Willow, find peace in the rain be no stranger to silence. The wolves prowl but you bleed with no fear. The roots from which you stand are yours, embraced, entwined in the essence of your breath. Your eyes have seen the darkness. You have felt the presence of the unholy, of wretched suffering. You have walked amidst the narrow of death and life, living between in a hollowed bosom. But now you have bound yourself to the exploration of ego. You leave no tears to fall in vein. Your soul reaches heaven, as does it hell. But you are no fool to the devil, and are no virtue to heaven. Your lips are turned inward, only to uncoil in speech that you find worthy. Your eyes give you sight no more to the bleak. The haze that follows you no longer blurs your vision to its ever anxious dwelling. You breathe with purpose and give no moment without grace. And though you are wrapped in the unfortunate of scars, you praise them each in their own way....

Our Overthinking Into Fear Where do you go, what do you do, how do you do it? This I cannot tell you, for we are complex in our overthinking. We bring in thoughts that hinder us, thoughts built upon pretenses. On things we have given life to from the curation of others. We build fears from observations or our quickly fading past.  And as we live by these absurd fears, we only bring our demise early. We become a withering flower to the ever falling sun. Only to become a decayed skeletal of wasteful tears.  And those mornings we wake in the arms of melancholy, or the strangling of our throats from the tedious hands of anxiety. We fondle our thoughts, ourselves, to the glutenous mouth of doubt.  We worry for things that have yet to happen, or have already happened. We bring fear through fiction of what horrors we believe shall transpire. Rather than what beauty may result in the attempt to go beyond our fear. And if we are such magnificent creatures,...

The Cover Up And A king  In a fit of rage he strikes him down; clashing him with his golden cup. His eyes lathered in deep fury, his flesh poised in the pulse of adrenaline praised anger. His jaw clenched so tight, a headache rises. But is quickly masked by his fumigating mania.  And there he stands, silent in temper, grasping his golden cup in a clasp of death. And now, at his feet lies his king. And with his body surging in violence, he wastes no time and in haste he drops his cup and begins to drag the body. Slightly heavier than he, he struggles to first gain momentum to carry the murdered body of his king. But upon gaining foot, he pulls the body up the few steps that lay before the throne, and places his dead king upon it. And in his now panicked hysteria as adrenaline has dissipated. He does his best to make the king look as if he has passed out from too many wines. But the kings body begins to turn pale, so he places the kings garments to cover his hands ...

A Lie of Weakness There, at the edge of the dirt road upon this solitary night; she stood, silent, gazing toward my vacant existence. She stood beneath a willow tree, that held itself at the foot of the river. And there, our eyes met with fervor. Hers, shimmered like the lighting of the moon, cold, alone, but mesmerizing. And as I stared, I was drawn, like that of new found doe to its mother. I craved her like the succulence of fruit. I felt her presence pull me like gravity, waving me in, towing me out, like that of an evening tide. And as I approached, I felt this brisk summer night, begin to caress me with warmth. A dry warmth I should say, a warmth, I had never felt before. With each approaching step I became deeply enthralled in this curiosity of what forges such heat, on such a raw bliss-less twilight.  And as I loomed my hollowed bones toward her, the warmth began to rise. Sweat seeped from my brow, but I pay it no mind. For it deserved no regard of mine, f...

What Keeps You Moving? What keeps you afloat in this drowning but dazzling world? Is it the flowers that bloom regardless of how bitter or harsh winter was? Do you find the drive to keep pressing on because of your children, your family, or friends? Or is it the fear of ever falling back to where you were? To lose all you have gained and become the frail pawn of sadness once more. To plummet to that dark alley where the scathing embrace of misery laid its head. Where the repugnant aroma of suffering breathed it breath. Leaving you soiled in its heated fluids of loathing. Causing the shivering of your soul as if to be a lonely child to the abuse of an unsightly offender. That empty room where you consumed the darkest thoughts as if it would bring hope. That addiction of agony that few truly understand. That excruciating feeling of wishing to expire and succumb to the insufferable call of death. What keeps you going? For what ever keeps you going, I pray the clari...

The Violation of Innocence  She is held in a limbo, a purgatory, a Ferris wheel she is forbidden to exit. A repeating scenario ensnares her eyes with shadowed glimpse of a figured torn from its body. A rope dangles in the flashing of a storm. Her window clatters against the violence of the wind. Her throat tense in fear, her eyes wide in panic. She feels her limbs become dull, as if her bones are becoming brittle to the taxing taxation of uprooted love. Her heart, taken from the soil of her once opulent soul. She feels herself drift like a ghost to the forgotten pages of dying memories. Her hands hold to nothing as she stares with gorged eyes of sorrow. Pale is the moon, as it waltz with the cavernous clouds of thunder.  And as she pours herself to the withered aches of her heart. She scrapes her thoughts from the addictive pleasures of what will be seized. As she is tortured in thought of what she restrained from  experiencing. She writes herself upon ...

A Soul Which Forsakes Vision  I spin in infliction upon my barren stretch of the smitten lands that once held life with strength. But I have become beaten, my breath no longer an apron to catch the stains of my soul. I have begun the end of the beginning, I have been bitten. The vampire phantom of the broken has come for my salvation. Its palate distinguished for this exact occasion, surely my crimson blood shall be forgiven.  Blood thirsty have I become in my wake of passive caution in the ingestion of toxins. Slay me of my burdens, strain me of tension, bring me addiction to the poisoning of my vision. Leave me blackened as one would be in the annihilation of the sun. Allow me the appeasement of death from the inhalation of the deceased. As if caught in disease of the maddened. Strip me of my muscles of the mental and bring madness to my beacon. I am now up for auction, the highest bidder take my canon. Fire me from your tongue and let me do your bidd...

The Harshness Of Perfection Upon Regret I am relentless in the expectations of myself. Harsh you might say, the unwillingness to ever say anything is at my best. Always pushing my boundaries, but this desire, this need to always be striving for the next challenge, for this perfect picture of victory. Thwarts the happiness that lies with me.    I fail in the honoring of my sacrifices, my accomplishments, which leaves me burdened, hollow in each victorious stride. It leaves me in a petrified state of being underachieved. That nothing I do is worthy of my praise nor others. I cloud myself in a vast empty hall, cold with breath, as I pull words from thin air. Hoping these will be the words that excite me. The words that will drive me to the bliss I seek. But this anatomical rock of life agitates me of any wishes to sit still. To confine myself to the pleasures of my doings, too much is at hand. And time stands still for no man. And I, regretful of my past, still hang ...