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? 

Find more stories like this in, A Man's Traveled Heart tHe iLL WiLL oF SeLF  Brush upon a canvass, creating a brake-less variety of colors. Coating the moments, one feels branchless in the world. Trying to find where to plant thoughts like seeds and become the brightness one needs so gravely.  But what business is left to do when one feels of a walking carcass?  Covering all basis of the damned, feeling breathless, almost brainless in the wandering of life. Ceaseless does one feel when colors do not blend. When thoughts become an eager chorus of claim-less doubts. Skirting the very breath of death, raising a blade in wishing for clearness. But only to feel as if one’s heart has become daftness to even the oldest closeness.  Disconnected in self, darkness becomes so dauntless one feels nameless in self. Puttering on the edges of thoughtless swamps. Drowning in pitiful dimness of the rash and quivering in the coldness of regret. Running from the...

Forsake ourselves. The moon is true beneath the stars, But the falling of the season will follow. Hearts will gather in pain whether sun or rain. There is no place of earth that holds an infinite peace. But the ever changing of our souls. The expansion like the blooming rose in the start of spring. The dew that settles upon each gentle blade of grass A story to be told and a story to behold. There is no place that will forever give you happiness, It is a constant battle but a battle that is worth more than the metals of earth. There is no power, be it God, the universe, or those we love, That will forsake us. For we lead ourselves to be forsaken. We give in to a single tear and each after, We fall for our own tricks but play them like a joker. Placing cards up our sleeves to play on others to hide our pain. Hiding within the frosted grounds of winters tears as if  we are dead, We crystallize our hearts with each lie We die with ...

This Is Me Without Creativity  This is but me without my creativity. My unwillingness to accept that not all days can be filled with perfect brevity. That some days come buried in the not so extraordinary. Where imagination is no longer merry, where my words seem to fall weary. Where I cannot seem to connect my soul to my brain. In a place that I have lost what was once perfect aim. Where words would connect without the a tongue that wishes to complain. This is me without the ability to tame. The ability to connect words that may make one seem insane. But that is where I find words that never sound the same. Where words collide in whirls like tornadoes that are looking to claim. I am not a writer for fame, but a writer to stay insane. To connect words that make me never wish to be plain. To never fall in the sewers of blame and become a dim candle in a forgotten home. This is me without the perfect tone, without the perfection of my fingers laced in chrome. Where I con...

Sometimes dreams are in the dimmest places  -Dreams Are Nothing-  He stares far into nothing,  Looking for something,  Always searching for that which is missing, But never finding.  No matter how far searches,  How close he gets,  He finds nothing, His senses are choking.   He tastes nothing,  Feels nothing,  He smells nothing, not even the budding of flowers,  But he keeps chasing. Chasing, Something that cannot be explained,  Something that gnaws upon his barren existence,  Something that itches like the scab of flesh An aching churns his spirit, he swings from a thread of domestic clashing. He is bursting with imagination, But Hurting in creation,  A dreamers dream, but horrors embracing,  He searches the deepest ends of his heart,  Still he becomes lost,  Still he finds the misery of the empty, finding his tongue upon cursing.  S...

-Lost passion- Upon oak wood, a frozen glass. Clattering of ice like thoughts clashing in class. Eyes fixated to keys, withering mind like a useless mass. Nothing sprung, nothing sung, just emptiness rung like cars through an overpass. But fingers crawled across black stricken symbols, bold to create a thought into motion. Yet, thoughts never seem to last. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A mind is fickle as it battles the heart. A mere choice to sit or stand can change the mood of one's moment. As the mind says to sit, but the heart says to stand, to stand and overlook. To see it all like a king standing confident upon his castle's balcony. But overwhelmed is a consistency with the mind.  Never truly deciding, always eager for hiding. Just to decide where to place thoughts and express emotion from the mind to fingers to letters set with meaning. Sometimes this, this is the hardest strugg...

-Life Block- I do not know where to go where to take my thoughts my flow  A barren river has a deeper soul   I have dream't but cannot see  like ghosts in day light my words are unseen  my fingers steady but my heart quakes  I don't know if I'll ever be awake my mind teeters on the swirling of a loose feather  I search with great intent among the coldest weather but every forest every path,  I come up empty handed, is this the devils wrath The dripping of words is usually my move  But the morning light has me a skewed My empty pockets without wage  ravages my thoughts like demons unholy rampage  I have no other no spark  My muse I have torn apart What am I but just a man  I am nothing special nothing grand  For true words would never be lost  I am ill to my thoughts, exhaust  Finding distraction and reason to sleep  But nightmares quill me dee...

-A Soul- I sit, I sit, I sit, I sit. Here we are, we sit. Our hearts no longer fit. You ignored the consequences of your own misfit. You burden me further as if nothing to omit. We must talk behind closed doors with a watchful eye. My soul unlit. Where have you gone and what have you done…. Why have you made it here,  I feel echoes of my voice as if to be falling in a mindless pit. I think what hell this has become. Numb, as I sit. Where we must sit, I sit, we sit. Locked in a room and you lost in it. This heart I had for you, lost. I try to find it. I try to cast it. But the connection is no more, it has split. Please let me rest and place you no more as a burden upon my chest. ---------------------------------------------------------- It was no more burdensome from the first call or the second, they were both a tell-tale of mistreated life. His heart split, but only for a moment, as if he knew one day this would come. His ...