Micah Park Biffle

    Digging your own Grave?   How eager your lips spill with contempt for any step you must take. Never forced to be as you are, yet you slither with slime, sulking in the suffering of your own making. Your eyes drivel with tears as if the world should feel pity.   Your back slouched in answer of your own lack of self confidence. You confine your sorrows in drinks or, the bitter taste of your sour tongue. Contorting words with jealousy as you waddle your way with billowed blame.   Your heavy heart rests at the bottom of your gut, like a forgotten memory, rotting. Stuck in a rut, your eyes fixed downward. Looking to your feet as you raise your hand to the sky with a finger of criticism of those that speak well.   You kneel as the soils beneath your frail bones become sullied in tears. No longer can it bear the standing pressure of your chiding thoughts. You must spread your weight upon your soft ground. Your foundation is uncertain. ...

Before The Bell Frantically I start to dig. I can hear scratches surface from beneath.The moon is settled high, glowing in a pearl essence of blue. The air is thick with the sultry of pine, the fog dense, wolves cling to the outer rims of the woods. My heart is petrified at the situation at hand. I do not know what has me caused for such concern nor the itch to have taken such a route home. A full moon always seems to create a curious angst within me. Sleep is never my fellow company on such a night. As I dig, I begin feel a dampness cling to my skin. It is like a cool sweat, my hands are becoming exhausted. But what ever lies beneath this earth seems to have something to say. The sound of scratches become more methodically frantic; as does my digging. The howls of the wolves fill the crisp air with an ominous mood. The hairs on my neck stand, goosebumps crowd my flesh. I begin to talk to what ever it is that is buried beneath these abandoned grounds. "I'm going ...