Micah Park Biffle

Choking On The Repressed  The door swings open, a ghastly wind rushes into the room. It takes hold his throat, he begins to choke; he struggles to his feet. Grasping at his throat his eyes strung wide he finds no passage to inhale. The candles lit upon his mantel fall. They catch fire to his antique rug. Suddenly the windows that overlook the valley lift open. More wind fills the grim space. The flames rise higher with the rushing presence of air. He continues to stumble around the room gasping for relief. The more he fights, the closer he feels at the foot of death. Visions begin to emerge, all those before him manifest from the raging flames and the dancing smoke. Voices eclipse his thoughts, darkness overwhelms his senses. A cold yet warmth gathers at his chest. He's sees a figure standing above him looking down as he falls upon his back begging for assistance. But the figure does nothing to repress the violent strangle that holds. His vision starts to blur, sweat ...

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...