Micah Park Biffle

A Risky Book "Open the book!" Misha says as Soush holds it in his hands. His light silver hair reflects the burning flame of the candle as Misha excitedly holds it over Soush's head. "Quickly, quickly, open it before mother gets home!" Misha wiggling her excited body as a drop of candle wax lands on the cover of the book. Soush pulls the book away as soon as the wax lands on it. "Look what you did...keep the candle away or you'll ruin the book." Misha pulls the candle away quickly as her face falls with unexpected disappointment in herself. But pulling it away quickly, more candle wax drops from the melting stick of wax. Some even splashes onto the ground and onto the surrounding books that are sprawled out on the floor. Soush, see's what Misha has done. He stands up in haste, drops the book on the ground. His eyes glare upon Misha as he attempts to grasp the candle. But Misha resists, she pulls the candle away from Soush as he fig...

Do you Water your Seed?    Plant a seed in the heart, a seed of good intention. Each day, water that seed. Water it with good intention. Whether that intention be a smile to a stranger. A hug with a friend or a burst of laughter shared or in the presence of self.   But good intentions are not without struggle. For often in our road of healthy intentions comes distractions. We forget our intentions for the day, in the moment we are flooded with rain or are in a drought.   But here is thing, we control our weather. We control how these storms flood us or how these deserts dry out our hearts. We are the gods of our stars, our skies. What we wish to see in our stars and feel in our storms, is our choice.   As much as it is a choice to listen to music or watch a movie. Some, must fight harder, some are in constant waves of dreadful pain. Some are held to the grips of depression and some are held to manic swings.   But in my days and in my meetin...

Find me on  Twitter A Freedom Taken By Lies It is his third town in the past six months. He does his best to keep his heart from home, to not let his nostalgia for memories cloud his judgment. His clothes riddled in filth as he has no funds, no place to rest. From time to time he finds himself a welcomed soul to allow him a stay in hotel. But much of his time is spent in alleys and strangely cemeteries. As he finds the dark somber setting to be a delight to his ears. As no smells of rancid decay wafts about his nose, nor the shouting of drunks and whores scour his ears. He knows himself, he must be belted in grotesque aromas. Smells that would leave any man chocked in his presence. But by  now, he has become accustomed to his position of stench and life. Six months, six months have come and gone. He wanders with aimless direction but passes through each day with a smile. Though his stomach is in constant agony of nourished substance. He finds no reason to treat his ...

Reluctant To Taste Your Dreams Do not be reluctant to taste the marrow of your dreams. To cut through the squelching of your past as it screams from the scalpel you wield. Do no fear the addiction they may bring. The succulents they will vibrantly instill upon the tongue of your soul. Do no follow the shadows that will tempt you with meager escapes from the pain. Pain in reaching for what most speak of as fiction. They twist the lines of their lives so that they may spill their ink from their pages. Only to blame the pen for the failure they have created. Do no wilt to the darkness that will brew in the stillness between the beats of your heart. For even a pinch of light, can rise, like yeast within dough. Fill each moment with belief in the stars that only you can see. Spread your heart among the universe at which you have designed. Bend time to your will, do not let it slide. Do not become cumbersome under the falling sands. Stand, for as long as you do not struggle in pit...

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...

She Wears A Heavy Mask She wears a mask upon her face, she blends to the crowd. Fading like white paint upon a white wall. Alone, inside her head she speaks of wondrous things. Of places that do not exist but in her heart. But dare she speak of such things or shall she be casted from the crowd. Ridiculed for her ridiculous words. She is no fool to the agony of rejection, she knows it well. And in this tormented chest of hers, she finds escape in the lining of her imagination. Crossing lines of great architecture of the mind. Creating whimsical stories that glare with such might.  Alone, in her mind she is the queen, the king, the soldier, the creator. She bears all powers to make what she will. And in this mind of hers, she wears no mask. She is the red rose among a rotten field.  She is the brightest star among the darkest nights. Her eyes twinkle with excitement as she laces her fingers through the lush fields of her heart. Leaving no inch of it unknow...

Empathy Is Our Apocalypse  The world is gone, not a single structure stands as it did before. Sands from far away lands, now rest here as if is to be their home. Cultures of others cleansed in the name of these sands. Deserted like the desert, threads of architecture split from the ground like slivers. Ashes cover the skies, the smell of burning flesh and gun powder enthrall the senses in disgust. Food is scarce, the weather, fickle against the black blind of clouds. It is a carnivorous scene, it looks as if the devil had kissed the earth. Screams from the distance echo through empty city streets. Filling the ears of those alone with much doubt, much horror. Feral beasts feast upon the dead with wild insatiable hunger. No communication but that of face to face and hand delivered letters is all that exists. Flames burn constant from the expulsion of oil from the earth. Families fear death as putrid souls gather in haste to take control. Pillaging the weak, murdering th...