Micah Park Biffle

The Perfect Beauty   She is perfect, built from the gods and birthed from the pearl of Poseidon. She is everything any man any god would want, would crave. Upon her birth she already stands among the gods as something extraordinary.  Her locks of red hair sway like flowers to ever soothing currents of the sea. Her skin, like the white pearl of the womb she broke from. Her face, perfectly spaced from great admiration of her father, no mistake was given.  She walks the earth in perfection. Each step she takes, beautiful flowers bloom, birds sing, and the world stares in awe. She resembles what all Beings of any life wish to be. Never silent, she always finds reason to speak.  If she be not speaking, you can find her singing. She walks the many cities of the world with absolute confidence. But as time progresses she still holds no hand for marriage. Yet, she continues to stride herself with grace and perfection.  Every city displays a statue of he...

A Man Productive Man A constant teething of stress always bides my heart. As rigid thoughts of insufficiency crowd my mind. I become strung out like an animal hide to the high sun. Dehydrated of peace, of any serenity if I ever had any. I am a coastline of desolation as I always fear I have not done enough. Sopped in the downpour of sadness as I feel no closer to my accomplishments with every passing day. I am tough to my very second of each hour, of each minute. I may smile as I pass by, but guilt throngs my heart. Like a room two sizes too small for a hundred souls. Shoulder to shoulder my guilt aligns with my happiness, my serenity. Slowly pressing it out as I wake each morning. Becoming of victim of my own thoughts. Pressing myself to do better, but even when I do, it does not feel to be enough. I could write a million words a day and still feel insufficient in my endeavors. Rarely will you catch me not thinking of my next step, my next word, my next story. I create ne...

The Harshness Of Perfection Upon Regret I am relentless in the expectations of myself. Harsh you might say, the unwillingness to ever say anything is at my best. Always pushing my boundaries, but this desire, this need to always be striving for the next challenge, for this perfect picture of victory. Thwarts the happiness that lies with me.    I fail in the honoring of my sacrifices, my accomplishments, which leaves me burdened, hollow in each victorious stride. It leaves me in a petrified state of being underachieved. That nothing I do is worthy of my praise nor others. I cloud myself in a vast empty hall, cold with breath, as I pull words from thin air. Hoping these will be the words that excite me. The words that will drive me to the bliss I seek. But this anatomical rock of life agitates me of any wishes to sit still. To confine myself to the pleasures of my doings, too much is at hand. And time stands still for no man. And I, regretful of my past, still hang ...