Micah Park Biffle

Rock Bottom It's a gory scene to be at the bottom, where the rocks settle and the beast sleeps. Few come out alive, the viscous scent of misery spawns with every ripple that passes over. Creatures with eyes of ghostly red peer through the bleakness as they search in feast of the feeble. Searching out malnourished minds and bitter hearts. Pumping deceitful thoughts as the pale skin of the wretched whom have fallen to the beasts scream. Shrieking in agony to strike fear in those who have newly fallen. Creating a toxic echo that corrodes those who carry dense doubt. Worming their tongues in the ears of their victims as the beast gnaws upon their feet. Weakening their balance, creating a limbless critter to emulate its voice. It seeds into the mind of the terrified, blending with the suffering they posses. They cry out but few fight back. They become hollow shells that suffice as a bowl for the beast to place its meal; and with each meal. The beast grows and the victim bec

A Whiskey Love  The whiskey settles upon her lips. She clears the resting residue with her tongue. Placing her glass down she raises her eyes to the pink horizon as a tears falls from her eye. A wallowing pain of memories hack at her beating heart. A small pick strikes away with each sip of whiskey. She forces an aching smile upon her face. Places her hand around her glass and takes another sip. But the whiskey is not enough, the pain still cries out with a heavy presence. She lowers her eyes from the sky and looks to the whiskey that sits in her hand. She examines it with curiosity in hopes it will suffocate the misery that saturates her heart; at least for a brief moment. But nothing suffices for comfort. So she places the glass down, another tear falls. She tries to articulate the pain that strangles her. But she shutters in agony and reaches into the right pocket of her jacket that is draped on her chair. From it she pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a small pink light

A Family Situation  His mom rushes out the door, new born in arms. Only ten years old and his father sees no reason to stay. Too young, he understands nothing of the dreadful scene that bleeds before him. His mother pleading as the young child's father rushes off in his old rusted ford. The tires screech, the moms falls to her knees crying upon the grass. Holding tightly the newly born child, it too cries in the tragedy of the moment. Woken from its slumber with no internal ability to ask why. Neither the new born nor the young boy knows the reason. The young boy feels only a sense to hide, fear curdles at his throat. But he does not cry, for he is too frightened to feel the grasp of sadness. He stands behind a tall plant that is just a few feet from the window that looks over the front yard. Peering with fearful eyes his upper lip slightly quivers as he sees his mom broken. He has no words to describe what he feels but his heart feels strange. He is pulled to come out

The Chapters We Fear  He sits looking to the pages before him, the ones he wrote. Turning each page with hesitation as a grim feel of grief taints his face. His eyes looking leery of what he shall read. For he knows the words that have tied themselves to these chapters. Peeling each page back with reserve but in the intent to understand. His heart drops in a constant revolution upon the turning of pages; fleeting to the boules of his gut. Moon light shimmers along side the welcoming of modest flames, it flares a shadow upon his wall. He looks to his flickering silhouette that fears the moon and candle light. It contorts with a sight of misery compelled by the wish to retreat. Snarling at the visage of what he is. He ignores the aggravating wishes of his shadow. He continues to turn the tears and blood stained pages. This book is no mere read for the weak nor the lackadaisical. It is the exact reflection of himself, of everything he has done. It is a book no man wishes

Choking On The Repressed  The door swings open, a ghastly wind rushes into the room. It takes hold his throat, he begins to choke; he struggles to his feet. Grasping at his throat his eyes strung wide he finds no passage to inhale. The candles lit upon his mantel fall. They catch fire to his antique rug. Suddenly the windows that overlook the valley lift open. More wind fills the grim space. The flames rise higher with the rushing presence of air. He continues to stumble around the room gasping for relief. The more he fights, the closer he feels at the foot of death. Visions begin to emerge, all those before him manifest from the raging flames and the dancing smoke. Voices eclipse his thoughts, darkness overwhelms his senses. A cold yet warmth gathers at his chest. He's sees a figure standing above him looking down as he falls upon his back begging for assistance. But the figure does nothing to repress the violent strangle that holds. His vision starts to blur, sweat

Make Not a Decomposing Heart Hearts will come and hearts will go, some will be welcoming. Some will be harsh, plucking yours as if a cherry; feasting upon it for the delight of their own appetite. Savoring the nectar that flows upon their lips like a wine cast from the ages. But yours shall always stay, and it may harden through the harsh travels ahead. Maybe it already has. Maybe it weighs of stone and beats of tar. But it is your heart, and no others can understand it. You must learn to preach to it, spill your pain to the vastness before you. Write it upon the walls of your ribs. Allowing no wounds to fester, be not a melancholic wanderer. Ending dead in actions of others, as if a counter part of Poe. Life is no downward slop. It is a path of treacherous and loving things. It will bleed you dry if you let it. It will bury you beneath the soils of earth before you even die. It can cause disdain upon those around you, though you be the sickness that ill's you. But lif

The Madness of A Needle and Thread Needle and thread, needle and thread. He takes the needle stitching pieces like madness. Suiting his desire to be a shadow of himself. His lack of esteem has driven him to the far woods past the Willow Ravine. Where no dare to step, for evil sleeps among the rotting trees. His eyes as pitch as the darkness that dwells in the woods. He speaks among himself as if he is not alone. His home is but a vacant shelter made of stone; the former residence to the one whom was never known. Its now brittle architecture stands like crooked spoiled teeth. Eroding with each passing wind.  His heart anxious, pulsating like a symphony of wild violins, strumming as if disaster hangs at his neck. His skin, a pasty ivory, for sun no longer settles upon his flesh. He paces his mind with horrific tendencies as he strings himself a desperate shell of his departed self. His grotesque need to tether the limbs of what he is not; only voids his appetite to be

A Separating of Hearts  Tearing through the fabrics of dream like thoughts. Descending from the mezzanine of my own words. I hear the violins sing in the courtyard of my chest. Somber are they, pouring tears from their strings. From the place at which your hands used to caress. Calming your heart with mine, listening with a smile. But now we must move on. Our paths are no longer in divergence; separation is our only chance. Dare we hold hands in the fear of our own insecurities, we shall only find anxiety. In that, we shall find resentment; for we will only lead ourselves from our own hearts. It burdens me so, watching you let go. Our fingers once laced like lips locked in a kiss. Now I travel these unknown paths, and alone. Your voice distant in my head, but close in my heart. The fields before me stretch with golden weaves of wheat; reminding me of your sunrise locks. I smile, but we did not forfeit out of anger nor frustration. But have given ourselves the chance to forg

A Murderous Wanderer  Your trifled need to be callous upon each heart you seek is sickening. One such as you, could even wear exhausted the wood of a white oak with the rotting of your touch. Your collection of the damned is far from acceptance of pity. It is false approval to your petulance to play hearts. Stringing them like teeth to be worn as a necklace; showing of warriors mementos. You act as if you hail no ill will in the kissing of lips, that in the mystery of your heart, is kindness. But I see the darkness that copulates with your rituals, your soul. You blend well in a crowd of broken. Plucking the helpless, you stalk in warnings of ides of march. Curating or pogrom of hearts. Mass graves you create, yet you smile; watching as souls weep. Burying them beneath the soils you tend. Growing roses from the aching, the helpless, but roses of black. Burnt from the misery of hell at which you find your nourishment. Your cloak of romance, you perform well. Your crooked l

The Unexpected The music deepens, the voices sing with intriguing muse. He stands with a mighty rage as it gnarls at his chest to be free. His skin flushed in fury his fists ready for battle. His eyes deadened to the world that surrounds him. His breath shallow with intent. His mind wandering the possibilities at hand like the tinkering of a mathematician. He buttons the last button on his shirt, pulls his tie taught and presses it smooth. He examines the threads of his attire. He turns slightly to his left, a small fiber peers from his charcoal jacket as if to taunt him. He pinches it and plucks it with resentful inclination. An examination of his clothes is taken up once more. Adjusting his tie one last time, he looks himself in the eyes.  No words are spoken, but he postures himself with confidence. Pressing his chest outward, his chin slightly tilted up, and his arms settled to his side. He takes in a heavy breath and slowly releases it.  He turns away from his m

Before The Bell Frantically I start to dig. I can hear scratches surface from beneath.The moon is settled high, glowing in a pearl essence of blue. The air is thick with the sultry of pine, the fog dense, wolves cling to the outer rims of the woods. My heart is petrified at the situation at hand. I do not know what has me caused for such concern nor the itch to have taken such a route home. A full moon always seems to create a curious angst within me. Sleep is never my fellow company on such a night. As I dig, I begin feel a dampness cling to my skin. It is like a cool sweat, my hands are becoming exhausted. But what ever lies beneath this earth seems to have something to say. The sound of scratches become more methodically frantic; as does my digging. The howls of the wolves fill the crisp air with an ominous mood. The hairs on my neck stand, goosebumps crowd my flesh. I begin to talk to what ever it is that is buried beneath these abandoned grounds. "I'm going

You Don't Die Today It's morbid, this existence, well, at least it can be. Moving forward at a snails pace, hoping for a by product of such motion. But you begin to feel still, as if a wall stands before you. You push, and push, and push; but with one more push you break free. You find yourself running so fast it feels as if nothing can stop you. Then again, you are taken by a sudden arrest. You fall to a grave of despair, leading to the undertaking of climbing. Grabbing hold of the loose soil only to gain no foot. Your mind weary, your heart stale. You see wraiths obscure the light from above. Their looking down, smiling, you reach for them. They say no words, but you know, you know their eyes deceive you. But they place down their hands as if to aid.  All you plead for is escape; but you are the breeder of these phantoms, these ghouls. Still, you reach for them. Upon the taking of your hand; pulling you from the grave. They already conspired to treat you to the

Waking To Magic I woke to magic, to stars falling, to the moon rushing with water, and the trees singing. I stood still for only a moment, before I felt my heart leap. It struck my ribs; pulling me forward. I took a step, and as I did, the world around me became animated. The scenery entwined like a dream.  Colors flew from my fingers like beams of light. Cliff sides swayed like grass in the wind. I reached out, I touched the moon. The water upon it's rugged terrain felt cool. I cupped it in my hands and I drank it. Upon the touching of my lips, my tongue, I became clouded in sorrow. But I could feel joy speak from these enchanted waters as well. As the water rushed down my throat; tears emptied from my eyes in silence. I knelt to the ground placing my hand upon the grass. As I did, it suddenly wrapped around my hand, but with a gentle displacement. It was as if it could feel my agony, like it knew my pain. I carefully pulled my hand from the grass and glided it

An Unfortunate Love Do I begin at the start, or at the end? Where do I begin my dear? This is far from where I thought we would be. Strung out on the misery of missing hearts. Coiled in the cold colors of the Arctic, gorgeous, but untouchable. A mere reflection of what could have been. Distant memories fall like rain, flowing to the nearest river. Only to find their way to the ocean and blend to the others. Where do I start? My heart is no longer what it is, I hold it in my hand; it beats no more. The blood, dry, petrified upon my flesh. Murder I think, was this me? Am I the executioner of our hearts?  I do not know, for your lips are no longer mine to taste. Your voice, no longer mine to hear. But I beg with quivering teeth and a body as stiff as death, tell me where I led you wrong? Was it the constant shifting of my emotions? I know I am no saint in the handling of my mind. Or was it the absence of my affection? I know, I shiver in the act of tenderness, it fright

The Travel Of Self  I look upon this gaping reservoir of nature. It's bold, unexplored by the metal fingers of man. A silent toast to the beauty that exists in our very backyard. The clouds, hovering at the tips of mountains like a kiss upon the cheek. As the clouds settle upon the horizon like a canvass of white. Hues of gracious complexions form with tranquility. As I carry my eyes across this mingling of natural architectural scene. I find my heart in a composition of words, trying to truly feel this moment, to interpret. But I can find nothing to equate this. There is no opening of language that can flood such a sight; bringing it to the reaches of readers, nor tongue. It is something that must be explained in the presence of experience. Of venturing to quiet hills of earth and finding the silent view so few see. I am taken deeply by this picturesque moment; for it has been twelve months since I have seen such allure, such refinement. Now upon my return, I have ded

Our Last Day: The Sphere That Saw Us, For Us  The stars were brighter than usual, the moon lay rested at its peak, glazed in a hue of turquoise blue. The oceans all across the world remained still. Not a single drop of rain was reported for twenty four hours. Birds were silent, their heads all looking in one direction, as if they knew what was about to happen. All the animals of world stood motionlessness. It took five hours before the world started reporting on this strange phenomenon. Nothing could be explained, there was no visible threat that could be found. No real danger was brought to the attention of earth. At least not until "It" showed up, something of unimaginable intelligence and unworldly design. It took only twenty for hours for it to hail chaos upon earth. Some how, though its size was that of a Pluto, it was able to bypass all radars and satellites. It landed fifty one miles just outside of Las Vegas. It created a crater large enough for Mount Rain

A Ticking Clock In War Three minutes and twenty seconds, the clock is ticking! Survival is at the fore front his mind, his veins, rushing rivers of blood. His eyes constrict to the goal at hand. Gun fire resonates through the village like wild thunder; as it rains down on the now burning and motionless convoy. Screams and explosions take flight to the dusted sky. The moon beams with a crimson radiance. Hill stops stand silhouetted in the foreground. Nothing is completely coherent in the moment. His thoughts collide in a wild fight to keep himself alive, he has only himself. Communications have ceased do to debris from an explosion hitting his radio. His chest on a constant rate to feed his lungs air. His bodied pulsating to the rhythm of his adrenaline charged heart. Bullets whisk by; only a few feet above his head. He watches the rounds buzz past him as they pop with an all too familiar snap. Watching, he takes a chance to see what threat he is against. Stuck behind a s

A Dying Heart of The Mind  What is it.....this incessant....what is this incessant ache that howls in the eve of my mind? This inane smog of emotion that jerks at the very pulse of my soul. I cannot find reason behind it, at least, that is what I wish to think. I pretend that what I feel is the result of being, that what I have become is it. That no matter the sprouting of my roots; I will never bear soil with another. That I will simply falter to the settling of what is before me. Some nights I am but a spider; clinging to the walls, waiting for what ever nourishment may fall to my web. Allowing me to nibble at a meager feast to keep me sustained. My bed side has grown in size, but has shrunk in comfort. My eyes, always stained in the dreary, the gloom of empty arms. Even the moon finds my presence petty, its tongue disgusted in the paltry of my existence. My narrow view of my heart presents me with no relief. I lay trifled in my own design of a perverse maze. Distracting

The Sirens are Ringing  (Warning, graphic depictions below) The sirens are ringing, the loud speakers in the city are playing a single message on repeat. Though the voice that speaks from the static is calm, it holds an ominous tone. It states: "We are in a state of emergency; the city is under direst. Seek immediate shelter, lock your doors, windows, and if possible board them up. If you have weapons of any kind, arm yourself with them immediately. We are under attack; the police are managing what their capabilities allow. If you are alone, and/or among the streets, please seek shelter now, do not force entry of any kind. As all citizens are on a state of alert, which may lead to accidental death in defense if forcing your way into entry. Be sure to announce your intentions and show that you are of no harm. If you see any emergency response teams, please announce your presence as well and show no ill intent. They will support you if they are readily available.

Our Failed Sails  We spent late nights, with the journey of conversation. Spilling our thoughts to wild fantasies of our imagination. Casting ideas of beings beyond our earth, thoughts that stars are stories yet to be told. We felt our hearts beat in synchronicity with each kiss, each moment.  Our eyes, flared to the wonders of our souls. Gems we called them, as they glimmered in the reflection of our smiles. Our lips caressed each other, concealing our skin the admiration of loving intoxication. We found ourselves lost in the bliss of each other’s spirit. Like addicts to drugs, we could never get enough. Always wanting more, but never, greedy in the need of the other. Our fingers laced, waltzing in the dust of the midnight sky. Wandering the late streets, making silly faces beneath the lights of First AVE. Summers were our best, adventure was found at every turn. Seeking the breath taking, views that leaves one grateful for the mere ability to see.  We would embra

The Triumph of Freedom The walls come tumbling down. An instant feel of triumph embodies the people with great courage. Sands flare from the hands of the wind, rain begins to pour with heavy tears. Omitting no attention to the environment, the people raise up roars of freedom, of strength, and unity. The sun glares enviously into the shroud of sand, but it can catch no view of the reckoning. The walls, now debris, sit with no command to force these people to the hands of malevolence. They storm through the openings of the walls, pressing themselves in the fury of sweeping victory. Leaping from the rubble of the wall; the men bellow with command. They charge with furious bravery as they breach the doors of the palace. Not even the diamonds that lay patterned at their feet, distracts them from their mission. The women and children, cheer as they watch from the courtyard of the palace. Seeking shelter from the wild winds and coarse sand. They hold each other closely