Micah Park Biffle

He Could Have Quit  Cab is struggling in the race. His heart is beating quicker than the pace at which the rain is falling. The Georgia heat is basking upon his body. Sweat has consumed every thread he is wearing. Behind is the beast of Defeat and its father, Surrender.  His back is aching as the weight he carries increases with pain as he fights to keep stepping forward. The streets continue to incline and decline like a wild waves upon the sea. His eyes are focused to the front. Every ounce in his body wants to quit.   His mind is teetering on reasonable reasons to give up. To let go and fall away into the bliss of sitting down. But he can't, he refuses. He did not come this far to give up. To let sweat, pain, and challenges be the barrier of his dream.  So he fights, he clears his mind to keep going, to not falter and quit. As he keeps pushing, he hears the rumbling of Defeat and Surrender tailing him. Their dark luminous eyes glare over him as Cab kee...

The Woman in Black  She held her hand to the flame. Watching as her flesh became a dripping candle of agony. She screamed with pain but gave no sign of stopping. I heard her screams as I was walking through the woods. Trying to find peace in my own head. Hearing her screams I stopped, adjusted my focus toward the focal point of her voice. I ran to her, I could see her after a only a few moments of running. She was there, at a fire, wearing nothing but a black dress and a dark veil over face. Bloodied misery fell from her lips like moonlight. I rushed to her, telling her to stop. But she gave me no sign of my existence. It was as if nothing else was around. Once I reached her she vanished into thin air. I fell, stumbling over where she should have been. I fell through the air crashing onto the forest floor. I stood up with confusion. As I did, I heard her screams again. I rushed to her again. Finding her in the same position, screaming, watching her own flesh melt from h...

Anxiety Attack I see the door, the open entrance of it all. But too much anxiety holds me, it grasps my throat. I fall back, scurry to the corners of my darkness. Making friends with shadows, though they only lacerate my hope. Bleeding me till I have nothing left but contempt for myself. My heart, racing to a rhythm I cannot keep. My breath as shallow as a receded tied. My hands clasp to my head as I try to filter through the animosity. The clouding misery that impedes my path. I cower to my fears, helpless; fidgeting for an excuse to let it all go. Time becomes my wrathful enemy. Its eyes narrowing as it constricts my mind. Pressing me further and further to the darkness. Seconds become minutes, hours become days and I cry with no intent to reach for compassion; neither for myself nor time. I feel no resolution for forgiveness. I stall, like prey to predator. Stunned in the recollection of my fears, never prepping myself in advancement. Sweat pours from my brow, my flesh b...

A Scarecrow Soul I know not what is left, nor where I'm trying to go. Everything has become dull, no longer do I glow. I am a dying star that fades between the moon and the sun. Afraid to shine for I feel I have nothing left to grow. A field of empty souls is all I seem to know. I am but a broken vase tossed from the comfort of my shelves. I am shattered, battered by the hands of my own ghetto. Dancing in the dim limbo of dead crows, ergo, I am a feast for death. But thought is still brought, though I wish to breathe nothing. I clamber to be a maestro of the infernal, for there, I feel I have something to follow; an end. My ego sits hung from the hollow halls of my rotted chateau. Plastered like a Fresno I crumble with no caring of my colors. Stretched out, my mind weak, I tread upon a plateau. Flat, empty, stranded in an abyss as I stand in the middle. A scarecrow, a symbol to advert the whispers of light. Drained myself dry of marrow; given to the damned. My soul, n...

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 ...

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...

The Ego of Man This ego, this thing, this voice that pleasures in the destruction of self. It whispers with naive tendencies. It tells you to hide, when you are shy. It speaks that you are to weak, to frail to speak up, that doing so, you will look a fool. That you will become the outcast like a lame child to war. This ego, it inflates the ideals of man. Pleasuring it self with pain, or the eccentric greed of flesh. Telling one to dress in attire to be presentable when one is working to sweat. It tells the fragile ego of a man, to strain himself, though injury may incur. It tells the woman, her hair is one inch too short, one inch too long. No man will adore such a look, change it quick. It tells the woman, that her make up is too much, to little. It tells them to look pretty, though she already is. This ego, it pulls the heart of man, like oceans pulled by the moon. Often it spreads itself like a virus, undetected, recognized as a simple protein of the body. Only later, t...

One More Day I say One more day I say, as tears fall upon my chest. My heart overwhelmed in the stresses of the daily. Scrapping by as bills gnaw at the waist of my heart. I can only hope, that some day, these anxious days shall be behind me. That I will no longer gasp for the air of serenity, for peace of mind. That I will be able to rise from my bed and no longer feel as if I am sunken in a pit of sand. Where days will no longer drag on in the worry of uncertainty, of restless thoughts of, will this be the month I collapse? Will this be where all of what I am becomes nothing more than a pitiful surrendering sack of fragile bones? But one more day I say, as I hold dearest to my pillow. Crying in silence as I fear my weakness to shake will hinder me friendship. That I will be but a spoiled painting one purchases only out of the kindness of their heart. As one would buy from a child.    But one more day I say, as I look to grey clouds that eagerly posture themselve...

The Harshness Of Perfection Upon Regret I am relentless in the expectations of myself. Harsh you might say, the unwillingness to ever say anything is at my best. Always pushing my boundaries, but this desire, this need to always be striving for the next challenge, for this perfect picture of victory. Thwarts the happiness that lies with me.    I fail in the honoring of my sacrifices, my accomplishments, which leaves me burdened, hollow in each victorious stride. It leaves me in a petrified state of being underachieved. That nothing I do is worthy of my praise nor others. I cloud myself in a vast empty hall, cold with breath, as I pull words from thin air. Hoping these will be the words that excite me. The words that will drive me to the bliss I seek. But this anatomical rock of life agitates me of any wishes to sit still. To confine myself to the pleasures of my doings, too much is at hand. And time stands still for no man. And I, regretful of my past, still hang ...