Micah Park Biffle

  Step Out! Out, Out from the gloom, The obscure breath of doubt Take stone, break thy yoke, Let trouble fall, let shoulders be lifted, Flow, to the heavens Be but strain no more, Open wide, thy mouth, Let prayer fill thy tongue Be parched no more. Stillness in heart  Though seas roar like lions, And beast snarl among mist, Step,  Out! To mercy of life, Ease, be reborn. Let no shackle of past Be meaning for tear Take hammer,  Fracture the cumbersome Be feet of swift Fill your days with strides, Though dunes widen And heat scorches thy soles. Out, Step out from thy fear, There is another to call To breach, To reach your heart  Though thee be of man, Let not thy eyes of flesh Be the dealings of truth, Wander, In aspect to be whole Be not the coward hidden in cave, A creature curled  Like frightened doe, For he walks beside thee, Like king among his men, A sword of greatness Sways from his belt, Ready, To swing against thy enemies, A presence more bold  T...

I have been writting poetry on medium, does anyone still wish me to write short stories on here? 

The Chapters We Fear  He sits looking to the pages before him, the ones he wrote. Turning each page with hesitation as a grim feel of grief taints his face. His eyes looking leery of what he shall read. For he knows the words that have tied themselves to these chapters. Peeling each page back with reserve but in the intent to understand. His heart drops in a constant revolution upon the turning of pages; fleeting to the boules of his gut. Moon light shimmers along side the welcoming of modest flames, it flares a shadow upon his wall. He looks to his flickering silhouette that fears the moon and candle light. It contorts with a sight of misery compelled by the wish to retreat. Snarling at the visage of what he is. He ignores the aggravating wishes of his shadow. He continues to turn the tears and blood stained pages. This book is no mere read for the weak nor the lackadaisical. It is the exact reflection of himself, of everything he has done. It is a book no man wis...

Verses In Solitude A verse is nothing more than a verse, when shaded from skies. What intention one gives it is no matter if he, the care taker of the verse allows no planting of such verses he has written. If a poet is to shelter his dominion what is the existence of his words? If not nothing more than a string of letters crumbled together in a symmetrical and orderly fashion. Are words meaningful if not shared with the wallowing eyes of others? Are they heard, like the tree that fell in the woods? Even if one is to write for himself and himself alone, in the confines of his chambers, do the words truly heal? Or is it upon the rationing of these words to others that bring meaning, that bring healing? For, if no other is present to see a poets transformation from his dull living space, to something of the utmost prestigious growth one can have from words. Has he truly grown, or is he still who he was before his thoughtful verses? For if no other sees him, from what he once ...

A Forgotten Teddy  There, on a park bench alone, sat a lonely teddy bear. Drenched in rain upon a cold fall evening. Not a single soul in sight, but myself. And as I looked at it, I began to wonder, who it did belong to, why was it left? Did a child grow out its tender looks, was the mother in a hurry and they left it? And as these thoughts progressed with a slight pinch of sadness, the bear began to remind me of myself. I too, often sit alone, cold, in the rain in silence. Hoping for the stars to fall from the sky and lift me. I think too, maybe this is who I am meant to be, a silent, solitary soul. To only be loved for a momentary moment before being abandoned out of boredom or wear. And as I approached the teddy bear, I began to see it was worn. Tattered, signs it was clearly loved at one point. Held through restful nights as a candle burns in farthest reaches of a room. Being a comfort in the dead sweats of nightmare. And I too, once held tight to something, clingi...

Rapture Your Soul  A splendid rapture of the soul can lead one to become well. To cleanse the envious toils of the heart and mind. Rinse clean the absolute disgust the recedes in the darkest crevasses that one fears to reach. We carry cobwebs that need to be brushed. But we fear them, as they look of webs. A dwelling for eight legs and venom. Ignore them do we, fearful watching as the wind sways them delicately. Clean them? But what if a creature lives within them, ready to kill what life we have left? Well so be it, at least an attempted to become healthy in spirit gave you hope to become something new. Clinging to filth is nostalgic, memories riddle the old. We hold dearly as we angst they may be useful later on.  But when has a cluttered heart of antiques led one to be profound in themselves? By all means keep the scars of lessons, but do not hold tight to what only brings burden. Scratch the regret from the mind and polish it for something greater. ...