Hi, My name is Micah Park Biffle, I am the author of ' A Man's Traveled Heart,' I am a Veteran who found in understanding of my self through writing. I consider myself an architect of the imagination. Here you will see my creations come to life. My short stories, poems, my thoughts, and a little touch of my life. (I AM SLOWLY MOVING OF BLOGGER< FOR NEW STORIES PLEASE CLICK THE "MEDIUM" LINK TO THE LEFT)
There is no finding dreams in the light.
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,
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.
Something calls but he cannot discern its voice,
He finds shadows of his former self,
Screaming for love,
Screaming for something
Something that burns in desire,
His eyes tantalized by an internal void,
Weary of the journey,
His mind begins mocking.
Innocence has been bled bare,
Murdered in a lake of tears,
A lake which drowns his soul and leaves him for the foul cradling of suffering.
Displaying the corpses of his dreams like trophies of murder.
He fears there will always be nothing,
He fears that nothing, that nothing may be his life's perpetual meaning.
-Have you ever felt like your dreams are an endless chase into nothing?
A Summer Bird's Winter Perch I watch this lonely bird chirp upon a slopping branch. Its feet wrapped firmly around the thin finger of bark. As I watch, I commiserate its position. Sitting there, alone, singing with no others to listen. Speaking I assume, to itself. Maybe contemplating its unfortunate circumstance. For the rest had already left for the winter. If I am not mistaken it was only a few days ago that I watched a flurry of birds dart by. Their wings flapping against the brisk wind collectively. Not a single one appeared worried of their journey. Their shadows crawled quickly across the empty streets during a fall evening. I watched them pass by like a feather floating down stream. I couldn't help but wonder, how long must they fly? What winds must they fight, what elements must they battle against? All must be against them as is every moment in time is against us all? Yet they fly forth to the heat of earth. Dependent upon their survival but, what
The Taste of Love, Will It Ever Be Mine? When will I find my lips upon the sweet taste of love? Lost to its scent like the aromal smell of roses upon skin. Will there be an end, beneath an apple tree buried next to my other half? Or will I drown in the soiled pity of my heart as whiskey stains my veins? For I find the misery of myself to be a dull company, but yet its tingles with addiction. And I draw my eyes close to the empty halls of the damned. Screaming for peace but always find myself chocking on pride. Lost in a dense fog I created in the heat of breath upon my frozen heart. Distant am I, in the reaches of tears. For they have no existence in the forefront of my mind, nor heart. Some may call me hollow, lackluster in the dreams of my own thoughts. What is one without the acceptance of tears, without the bravery to step into the engagement of vows? How does one truly go beyond his own vicious habits if there lies no other to call them out? I hear my soul whispe