Micah Park Biffle

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...

Don't forget to take your soul on a ride A Man's Traveled Heart A Ballerina's Dream Come True  She was told to stop, she was told she would amount to nothing. That she is but a flimsy child withering to her imagination. A foolish heart with only a hand for disappointment.  And these words, these thoughts played like a song on repeat. Only thirteen and the world seemed to rage against her. It felt as if the world had built a wall she was never destined to climb. Even her own friends seemed to join in in the thoughts of her faults. Of creating a gossip of distortion of who this girl was.  Thorns is what this world is she thought, thorns is all it has. The budding of roses is never to be. They are cut the moment they try to spring to the sun. Only to be brought to the ground and trampled upon like dirt. Crushed with every passing moment, soon, to no longer be a rose. But a crumbled dream among the rest of the world.  She found no love in her dream, in...

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...

Your Mind Is The Reason The World Can Design Minds meet, they think and think, build and create. They design, they speak, they leave the world in a brilliance of rhymes. Creating lines that leaves ones lips tasting like lime. Putting all things in line with the imagination of minds. For only a minute, is one in its prime. Pushing static aside, becoming alive. Let all things from the mind commit no crime. But the ones that many think, are stupid, and far from the sublime. Sometimes the mine is perfect on time. But other times, one moment the words are blind. Ideas seem to never coincide. Then out of the side. The world of words, becomes so divine. They twist and wind, like whispering vines. Why would any one wish to leave this world behind. For minds scratch and carve and slowly grow hard. But are always ready to rip ideas a far. Bringing new things that could never be thought, but from the human mind. Two lines, three lines, the chatter that strides. Bath the mind wi...