Micah Park Biffle

Living In The Shadows The shallowness of reading what already was. Capturing tears upon words, following trails of ink. Leaving no sign of new. Scratching pen across the happenings of past. Writing to close to fires, melting the light.  Shadow's billow upon pages, shadowing the now. Tear's clouding thought, madness ensues. What filth grimes the nails. Clawing for something to free, but too late. The walls are built the hell is lit and the heart is bleak. Eyes widen to the darkness, seeing no words to create. Holding ill to the unreachable, the no longer present. Fulfilling in desire, but holding deep to misery. Bleeding are the lips, for speaking in the shadows there lies pity. And screams will not be heard. For no ears but the designers will be present. Crying to the vacant lot of split white canvass. But fear holds to the aurora of what could be. Now no hope is to be held, little is to be done. For only the creator has the key.  Falling in disease to n...

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...

A Corpse To My Soul  I don't know where to take this. This corpse of mine that drags at my feet. It holds at my ankles with much desperation though it is dead. I can smell its stench with each fading second, but I have become null to it. Its grip, hollow, but somehow clings to me as if I am a God. And I hear it pray behind its rotted teeth that I will raise it from death. I try to ignore its spoiled flesh, its barren voice. But I am drawn to it when the world becomes a haven for burdens. I listen to it with regretful intent. And when I listen, the hills before me, grow that much higher. I become a thimble of a man, pressed heavily with anguish. With the constant battle of what is no longer, as I clasp with aspiration to create what will be. And this corpse, in its moments of declaration for wishing existence once again. I rage in my voice that it will shut up. That it will release itself from my ankles and let me walk in peace. But in just the moments I stop. Wher...

Get lost in the most soul rising book   A Man's Traveled Heart A Heart Of Skeletons  It never stops, the chattering distant voices. The scratching of old scabs, doing your best not to peel them back. To not open old wounds and bleed to the past. The constant choking on black smoke that floats trapped from the shadows we hide. But in this weakened state, we lift the scabs, though we know it bears nothing but pain. As we stockpile skeleton after skeleton in the deep corners of our hearts. Hoping none shall find them buried beneath a facade of happiness. As we blend to the melodrama of our life, acting as if all is without care. But, the moment we reach our bed, we sigh, we die, we collapse in the tears of our misery. Feeling the scars we bear, speak with no intent to comfort. Prying at our hearts as if we are deserving of anything pleasurful. That we are but a fragment of our former selves. That even that tiny piece of us that is left, we do not deserve. An...

We Are Beyond Our Flesh  Its as if I am but an extension to my actions. That what I choose and what I do, are truly not mine. I have felt the darkest dark's, and the brightest brightest. I have wallowed in the silence of the damned and laughed among the angels. And in all these strange wanderings, I have come to see that I am not me. That I am not the skin upon my flesh nor the bones that keep me upright. I am more than the eyes that sit inside my head like beads. I am more than the fingers that plunge into the creation of writing. There is much I cannot explain, nor do I wish to. But I feel as if every moment I am awake. There is a force that wishes to pull me. That wishes to see me design, mend, and be. I have dreamt the most vile visions and dreamt of the most beautiful views. But in these dreams I feel as if they are not truly me. That it is not the nerves that spark the thoughts, the visions. But that they are creation beyond my control, beyond what I see. For too ...

A Man's Traveled Heart Lust Is But A Vampire At a late night ball, on the highest mountain top, upon a small range of cascades. There was a woman, a woman of fantasmic beauty. She donned such charm, that it seemed to hypnotize those around her, like mindless insects to light. She wore a red dress, with hair of the darkest ebony tone. Her eyes were silhouetted in a haze of purple. Her skin, as pale as a shinning moon, her lips, decorated in blood red. Her perfume had a spice only men could understand. A scent, that left their hearts racing like a poor chap for heroin. Though, this ball filled the chambers of the hosts home. Not a single soul knew who she was. But upon her presence all those who laid eyes upon her froze. Not a single infliction of emotion spurred from their faces. They stared in awe of her beauty in an almost thoughtless pursuit. As if she was a god walking among men. Even the women embraced her sight, but not in the fiendish way of men. Those men, wh...

This Emerald Glow Has An Empty Soul  I look in the mirror and no longer do I see the eyes of emerald glow. I see, a shriveled mass of flesh and bone. Pathetically portraying what I once was. Now, all that lays before me is a desolate shell, a hollow canvass that echoes like the ocean. But I amass no creatures within, no creations to be found. I have withered in my possession of self. I have become complacent in my doings and derailed myself from action. I have crashed upon an empty shore, only to stare in desperation that a wind will carry me home. But I am no fool, I know no wind will carry my feet or will lift my wings. I have consciously forsaken my path in pursuit of ill pastime. I am far from the words I speak, I have skipped the beats of my heart. And now listen to the dull voices in my head. Sloth, has overcome my willingness to be. I have ruptured the beautiful landscape that was before me. And I have left it, in a pollution of stagnate thought.  These f...

Follow me on  Facebook Fear Is A Beast There, at the top of Mount Revered, lies a beast. Its eyes made of flames, its soul as dark as the deepest ocean. Its voice rumbles like thunder breaking clouds. And its holds no intention for the calming of its surroundings. It reaps destruction with each breath upon this mountain. And in its raging, its brings storms that flood the lands below it. It brings clouds that blacken the skies for days. Leaving those below, to wonder if the sun will ever be. It has no taste for sympathy, for the broken or poor. Its smiles with loathing eyes as it sees those who live below it dance in the sun, dance in the rain. Though the beast bears nothing but a tongue lusting for carnage, many find no fear to it. It builds itself upon the fear of itself, of others willing to cry for it. This beast is no fool the weeping of beings. The temptations they follow and the voices that plague them with ailments. Its has grown root in the thoughts of ...

The Desert Of A Grudge  The sand hails its presence with a mighty wind. The sounds of tumble weeds bristle along the desert stones as rough hands hold to cold steel. fingers grip with intensity, as brass is sent into a chamber for its final descent into flesh. The sun sits high in the sky with a ghostly silhouette between the horizon and clouds. Its heat scorches with envy, as if jealous to never step foot upon land. And as the sun hangs in its envious state, two men steel for steel, stare with much grim. Their faces scuffled and dry from the harsh desert heat. Their lips cracking from the absents of hydration. Their teeth tinted in yellow from cigars and whiskey. And though they stand ready to die, neither wavers in fear. No trembling of hands, no anxious welts appear upon their face. Their eyes steady in the moment, ready for the end, ready to commit to the hands of death. All is silent in this moment as the two stare with no intent to move any further. Vultur...

Here, in front of me stands a mirror. Its gleams with pristine cleanliness as I drag my eyes faithfully along its edges. Wondering, what purpose does it truly have, is this but another view of what I am? Searching Is Not The Answer  I retract my eyes from its edges allowing sullied breath to sink into my lungs. I release this breath with an odd sense of curiosity as breath settles upon the mirror. Now, with breath upon this mirror, I watch, as it fades almost instantly. As if disdained upon my presence. Only to leave in an almost translucent outline upon the glass. And again, my thoughts wander upon the condensation of my breath.  And in watching it fade, I ponder, with intellectual eagerness , am I but not a breath from the universe, from God? Slowly fading upon the reaction of molecules and the designers final stroke of the brush. Am I not but a reflection of what another has drawn, for what naturalism can create such perfection mixed with such disaster? Playi...

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...

follow me on  Facebook The Lust For Riches  The waves crash with furious might, the winds howl with a raging voice. Clouds crowd the skies, sparking with brilliantly lights. Not a single gap in the sky can be seen for miles. The horizon lay hidden behind the crashing waves. An ominous feel grips the air as sailors do their best to direct the ship. But natures forces, have become ever inpatient in swallowing the ship. Men are tossed over board like splinters pulled from flesh. The captain, with his patched covered eye and grim face. Stands his ground with every intent to survive the storm. His voice bellows with command as his men follow. But the hope to survive, is fading like the eye of lighthouse in a misty morning. Many of the captains men have become crazed in fear. The hand of nature has drawn them to a weakened state. Their faith in themselves has dwindled like the sun to this storm. Though, their captain stands ready to die till his last breath....

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 ...

A Monstrous Machine and A Simple Habit  I wish to turn something dull into something magnificent. I wish to turn the mere actions of one into something transcendent to the senses. Actions one does from the mere sake of habit: The sound of water flows from a single point. Fingers from an early morning rise find themselves delve into the flowing water. The water rushes upon the fingers like a flood. With no anticipation to stop the water falls in perfect harmony upon the skin. Caressing the flesh as it is resisted to stay. Falling quickly to the basin of its now new home.  As water rushes the fingers adjust to the rising temperature of the tempered water. As the water rises in heat. The fingers are removed from beneath the translucent life, the fingers glide back from the pouring of water. Gently the fingers clasp upon glass, raising it from a cold, silent, ivory surface.  The air is brisk, silently collective with the smells morning dew and the crisp f...

A Dark Path and Three Drunk Fools  Down the narrow path lies a red light, a light that flickers and shines only at night. With a carved sign that's says "no trespassing or you will die." No feet of the villagers near by, have ever dared to peer to the other side. For there is too much fear and imagination to stride.   They talk of those whom may have died upon being crucified and left to dry. To hang damnified for the horrible things they did with villagers to be sacrificed. Even stories of an ugly man who was ostracized for his looks and left to die. To be recluse and sing his tunes. Some say if you listen close enough, you can her him play the organ, with a man name Hyde.  Some speak of a child whom's spirit floats about that of the other-side, who died on a carnival ride. Though this path is hidden on a mountain side, near a village few have seen with a naked eye. This path resides world wide. Though these stories have little evidence to be cla...

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...

Could there ever be a me and you?  If there could be, it would be magnificent. It would be something to behold upon the world, we would be bold. Bold in our hearts for each other, bold in our adventures of happiness and tragedy, bold in our actions for each other. We would rise like sparks from the heavens and never fade. Always giving light when the world seems to implode with misery. Leaving trails of brightly grown roses composed with streams of sublime grace. Creating a maze of stars within our kiss, losing all sense of time and existence. Feeling only our lips, our love, and the rhythm of our hearts. Feeling perfect harmony as our souls collide like thunderous skies as we bring life to love. Giving birth to something intangible. Something that turns the coldest days into the warmest moments. We would be something grand. We would be something so grandiose an orchestra would render our souls. Our days would be filled with laughter that would stretch our smiles so ...

A Scientific Lie  Sam_Journal_Entry_365_June_2166_25_1300 We now live above the earth, above where we were once born. The government has forced our very existence to be separated from the flowers, from the soils of our planet. Only a special group, the SST's, Special Supply Teams, are allowed to go down to earth, beneath the clouds. They go to gather supplies for our now floating world. We float above the clouds in domes, in self weather generated cities and landscapes. We know the weather before it ever arrives, no disasters come, no droughts, no struggle to keep things in order. As citizens though, we are not allowed to grow, nor plant our own seeds. We must purchase specialty seeds from local government owned shops. They say they are organic and naturally found from earth. But they grow unexpectedly fast. They say the plants grow in a steady fast pace due to the great weather conditions. But still I find this to be odd. For my father’s tells me ...

A Love Gone, A Heart Taken She feels as if she is alone in everything. As if her heart is but a lonely pearl at the bottom of the sea. Beneath the sands in the deepest of oceans. Darkness fills a void in her chest, shadowy creatures plunge deep into her soul and scatter like roaches. Finding any crevice to hide within. Only to be scene in the shadows by their thimble sized eyes in the reflection of the moonlight. As her eyes are still to the motion of the world. Alone she sits, as music plays delicately between the silence of her slow beating heart. A heart that beats in sadness, hollow drums march in sluggish rhythm. She finds the world to have taken what she once was. But now, a foolish fool she feels as her eyes set upon a pale ring wrapped around her finger. Betrayal of the highest has crushed her existence, blinding her of her once sweet smile. And as she sits with a heavy heart as thunder breaks the sky and rain washes the earth. She thinks to herself, "...

A Dead Dreamer They are grotesque, dull in vision, dull in life. They speak with disease, with illness. They see grey upon all flowers, mountains, and rain. They look no further than their breath, they speak no further than their day.  They find feast upon the damned, upon the withering fields of souls. Plucking newly planted seeds and devour with delight. They shackle their surrounding with bitter taste and soils of resentment. They spit at the nourishment of water. They poison their own wells and gladly share the contaminated. They see no fault in the dwelling of self.  They shift their tongues like the devil, they lurk in the hate of their own shadow. They seek no peace, only slaughter.  Praising in the pain of their massacre. If murder was able, they would find themselves painted in blood. An abomination they be, sweltering in the anguish of the plain. Finding the finest escape in the false actions of flesh. It is in their shoes they find poverty ...