Micah Park Biffle

The Bone Girl     I hear whispers in the night as I lay my head to rest. I assure you I am not ill, I am not mad in the mind or body. Quiet whispers I tell you, tickle gently upon the canals of my ears before each rest at midnight. Like wisps of wind through an empty hall.   But oddly, I fear them not but I am quite gripped in confusion. As if lost in a room of mirrors, I am finding no exit. But I do not allow my lost mind to be wild. I keep my wits about me as I lay myself to rest.       What these whispers say I do not know. They are foreign in tongue, or so I think. I reach out to my doctor, he gives me no advice but to take pills to help me rest. He states, "It may be your lack of well rest. Often the mind will become delusional if not sufficiently resting."   I take his offer of pills and yet, I still hear the somber voices that trickle from the air. I am not mad I tell you, I swear. There is no delusion of m...

   The Choice of History  There lies an entrance, a red door to a place far different from any other. Where magic is real, time is alive, but love is dead. It is a place of desolation and pain. A place where blood flows from rivers and mountains are built of death.   It is a place so horrible, the door has been sealed shut. Locked for all eternity, a place once flourished with bountiful colors, a place where ever growing thoughts and wonder once pranced like dear through meadows. But like anything, there comes a time of destruction.   Where city floors were leveled, trees were chopped, and hope was a lost. A time when everything ran its course and something new must take its place. A time when death lives and life is but a drip of water falling from a distant cloud.   But not all is lost, though the entrance is locked, hidden from the eyes. It can be found by the heart, by the vision of faith. It can be brought from its slumbering chambers if on...

                                                                    Suicide Forest What you are about to read is an event I so dearly wish was a dream, but unfortunate it was an unfortunate event I unfolded upon myself.      I decided to travel to the suicide forest. Why, I am not sure and am still not sure. But something drew me too it. Picture after picture I studied with great detail. Examining every spec of each photo as if there was a clue to saving myself from a deathly illness.    Each body that hangs has a uniqueness, each their own sadness; grief. If you stare long enough you can almost feel their spirit weeping. It is as if they are still alive, trapped in the echoes of time. Atoms circling, but lost, corrupted in an early death.    Like the deletion of...

Your Heart is A Battleground   You're heart is a battleground. Wounded with misery, streaming down the corridor of your walls like paint drying upon canvass, a crimson hue. Echoes of warriors yell from the suffering you have beard and shall bear.   It beats with vigor but holds graves of many. Transformed in each battle you have lost something, but gained much more. Though you are a rhythm of pain, there is beauty in the gloom. The fields at which you fought now spread with golden wheat.  Eagles soar in the fresh winds in the feasting of varmints as you move on. Brave, unwavering to the endless bouts of suffering. Unsheathing your blade from the vanquishing of your enemies. You have  bled love from each wound and have filled the veins of your flesh with heartbreak.  But have fought your way to cleanse the polluted rivers of your heart. You have never been silent in the abuse of self, nor in scene of your enemies attempts to murder...

Our Understanding is Lacking  As I look out into the dreary streets of this city beneath the over hang of an abandoned market; while watching strangers pass by. I think to myself how strange it is, how amazing, how humbling it is. To realize that each person passing by, young or old. Each has a story, each has a perspective, each has suffering, struggles, and joy. Each living in the known and the unknown. These city streets, though I dread their congested momentum and their consent need to be connected in everything. I have a sympathy for it all, for us, I have no pity, but I have great sympathy. For we all have our paths, our heartaches, our lessons, our failures. Some of us start off worse than others, some are born in poverty and know the dreadful aching of hunger. Of worrying if food will be available today. While others, may be born of great wealth, knowing not the pains of hunger or shelter. But knowing  the lack of love, of affection from themselves and othe...

The Violation of Innocence  She is held in a limbo, a purgatory, a Ferris wheel she is forbidden to exit. A repeating scenario ensnares her eyes with shadowed glimpse of a figured torn from its body. A rope dangles in the flashing of a storm. Her window clatters against the violence of the wind. Her throat tense in fear, her eyes wide in panic. She feels her limbs become dull, as if her bones are becoming brittle to the taxing taxation of uprooted love. Her heart, taken from the soil of her once opulent soul. She feels herself drift like a ghost to the forgotten pages of dying memories. Her hands hold to nothing as she stares with gorged eyes of sorrow. Pale is the moon, as it waltz with the cavernous clouds of thunder.  And as she pours herself to the withered aches of her heart. She scrapes her thoughts from the addictive pleasures of what will be seized. As she is tortured in thought of what she restrained from  experiencing. She writes herself upon ...

A Dependence  You watched me, pleased with your affects. You brought only misery to the void of my heart. Displacing my thoughts in the hands of suffering. I became your puppet, strung out on your command like an abused child beneath the voice of its father. You concluded with no reason. Abandoned I became even further, you clambered in with precise madness. Growing chaos with each seething tooth at which bled me. You found pleasure in my own forsaken wings. Drowned me in your purest from you did. Battered I became, left with no will, left with no reason to transpire. But to be your empty devotee,  I ached for you.  Gladly, I tarnished my soul to burrow withing your existence. A womb is what I felt, but a false one were you. Teething at my broken heart, you knew, in my insecure and decrepit state, I could be owned. I could be yours till nothing was left but my complete inane desolation. And in the delight of such an accomplishment, you shall find another. ...

Abused But Not Hopeless Three children and alone, abused in the last torment of what she thought was the opportunity of blooming lilies. Hoping to string them across her neck in the display of artistry between her and the love she had for her relationship. But quickly were the flowers trampled on beneath her mans lack of self-esteem. Bridging his hate for himself upon her and her children. And oh did he show it well, his hatred for himself. Sly in his words but weak in his actions. Raising his hand not only to her, but to the children. Leaving bruises, welts, eyes that would bring one to shiver upon seeing such brutality. His ever so false chivalry would play well after the fact. Creating his sorrow to be theirs, reaching for forgiveness but with horns. Hiding his scars, creating the children to be a burden to his wealth and his mental well-being. Nights would pass and not a single plate of food would be served. For she had no job, and his tongue would speak ugly to her own...