Micah Park Biffle

The Bone Girl     I hear whispers in the night as I lay my head to rest. I assure you I am not ill, I am not mad in the mind or body. Quiet whispers I tell you, tickle gently upon the canals of my ears before each rest at midnight. Like wisps of wind through an empty hall.   But oddly, I fear them not but I am quite gripped in confusion. As if lost in a room of mirrors, I am finding no exit. But I do not allow my lost mind to be wild. I keep my wits about me as I lay myself to rest.       What these whispers say I do not know. They are foreign in tongue, or so I think. I reach out to my doctor, he gives me no advice but to take pills to help me rest. He states, "It may be your lack of well rest. Often the mind will become delusional if not sufficiently resting."   I take his offer of pills and yet, I still hear the somber voices that trickle from the air. I am not mad I tell you, I swear. There is no delusion of m...

A Forgiving Son "Do this, do that, be this, be that, why are you such a failure?" These were the words of his father every day. Drunk off his depression, his anger his dad led a life of secluded suffering. His son, the blunt of that pain. No reason for such animosity but the boys father was a reckless, unstable, emotional pinball.  His breath foul from drinks daily. His disability check from an injury from a public vehicle crashing into him, paid enough to cover the bills, feed himself, and buy drinks. His son gathered what ever left overs he could find.  Or he would scroung through the neighboring trash cans. The boy was kind, sweet, he never raised his voice to anyone, except himself. On some nights, his father would lay into the boy with verbal accusations and character attacks.  Other nights, his father would be too drunk to really speak so the boy would be victim to physical abuse. Slaps across the head ending with the slurring words of, "Why ...

Abused But Not Hopeless Three children and alone, abused in the last torment of what she thought was the opportunity of blooming lilies. Hoping to string them across her neck in the display of artistry between her and the love she had for her relationship. But quickly were the flowers trampled on beneath her mans lack of self-esteem. Bridging his hate for himself upon her and her children. And oh did he show it well, his hatred for himself. Sly in his words but weak in his actions. Raising his hand not only to her, but to the children. Leaving bruises, welts, eyes that would bring one to shiver upon seeing such brutality. His ever so false chivalry would play well after the fact. Creating his sorrow to be theirs, reaching for forgiveness but with horns. Hiding his scars, creating the children to be a burden to his wealth and his mental well-being. Nights would pass and not a single plate of food would be served. For she had no job, and his tongue would speak ugly to her own...