Micah Park Biffle

A Love I Plead To Be Free Of There is no room for you anymore. These memories I wish no longer to store, I am sick of being dragged as if I am a corpse. A dead man for your pleasure to horde. To only speak to me when you are bored. I no longer wish to be a part of your dreadful story, let me soar. Let me find the better part of me though it may cut to my core. We are but a endless tragedy, a massacre, a war. Let me morn no more what we could not have. Your lips tainted, left me sore. Your heart became mine, though you never opened the door. And I waited with much patience as I tried to restore, acting to be a savior. But nothing could be done, you wore armor, and I had no encore. I could take no more, finding myself in a drugstore. Buying cheap spirits to leave me feeling no more. I deplore, let me be, let me roar, still you cling to me. Our memories I want no more. You linger at the back of my mind, you gnaw, I bleed, I scream, but cannot get free. Chains I have given you...

Find me on  Facebook Our Forgotten Books Wall to wall, this room holds memories, not just of me, but of others as well. Its nostalgic perfume brims of good times, of bad times. Alive is this place, as words can mend and words can soar. Brilliance, hidden behind each cover, patiently waiting to be unraveled. To be heard, to be read, to become the thought of another. This place, this dwindling place, where many search only when professors profess academia upon the halls. When grades are met in standard of ones knowledge to paper. But this place, though slowly forgotten. Thrives among many though they be few. Like the stem of dandelion, hundreds spread, upon a single room. In this place, all senses come to life. The aroma of old pages, of new pages, drift in comfort to the mind. The touch of books, of words, silent, blended, rough, smooth. Rippled with wrinkles of excessive lectures, or obsession to discover. Each row, each shelf, holding a billion thoughts, a billion d...

A Dream of Love (A story from my up and coming book) The Bleeding Of Words   Oh! Where must one go to hold love. To keep it forever, never, having to set it free. ------------------------------------------------------ Where will my heart lead me, as I hold on to this misery? I can barely remember what it is like to feel. What it is like to find something beyond the pains of heartache. Beyond the walls, I have constructed. Nothing feels the same, nothing tastes the same. The world has become bland in all thoughts, views, and sounds. Note even the air holds any sustenance to my life. I feel bare and empty as any attempt to feel wisps over me. I feel as if the earth is nothing more than deserted endless hearts bleeding for more than their past. More than the pain that lingers behind their chest like an itch to the back of the throat. I look at the sun in mid evenings eye, as it casts shadows as strangers walk by. The trees pose skeleton to the cold fall. My ...

Fallen To Society  It starts out grand, glorious, magical, with a slight hint of reality. All things are new, all things transpire in extraordinary breath. Our eyes gleam with excitement with each passing day. Till we no longer can remain in shuttering struggle to stay awake. Even the stars are miraculous, bleeding with a stupendous view. Leaving not a moment for us to think the world is otherwise.  Our innocents compliments our curiosity, though we may find ourselves behind a pointed finger of anger. Only to end up with a smile so splendid, those that care, but must punish, can no longer remain riddled with temper. We charm our way with pleasant laughter and doughy eyes. We find our hearts to brim with happiness, with most ambitious dreams. And when we learn to speak, though limited it may be. We become an adventure of why. Seeking answers though we may have no sense. Only to antagonize the elders to feel the limits of their patience. And unknowingly, we become m...

Check me out on  Facebook Nostalgia Is But A Brute A breeze passes with gentle intentions. An aroma pursues the breeze with nostalgia, lifting me to a memory long ago. I knead it like dough, though I know I should let it go. For it is but a memory that floods with woe. It is an echo, left to the hollow lands of my mind, never to regrow. For those lands are the shattered, the broken, the lands that left me narrow in sight. Pecking at my soul like dead flesh for a crow. And though it may be a beautiful and birght, its drips of sorrow and lies with tragedy. And in this memory of this blissfully painful scent. I tiptoe, upon a scenario, I swore to never bring breath, as if I owe. And nostalgia, is but a false euphoria, a placebo. Leading one to a rodeo of emotional harrow, clambering to elegance, like the notes of a crippled piano. But I am foolish upon this memory, for I chamber it to my life like romance, call it my Romeo. And in it I die, I fall bleak to the o...