Micah Park Biffle

A Weary Traveler and their Words    Where to travel with this weary heart? I take up my art of broken dreams the seamless lines of darkness crowding my vision into blankness. A shroud of shadows singing so proud the hallows of the empty hollow halls. The void of my heart, tearing the delicate parts.  Where to take this lonely heart? The mountains are cold, the valleys are low and my heart is even deeper. Sinking further into the distance, a star fading to existence as wolves prowl between the howls of the wind. A sin I live in, a torment of grief, of cascading pleads.  Hands bleed as a I hold this ax, cutting down trees. Making a home that shall fit me. But alone it is difficult and in time gives no residual. And alone these eyes see two perspectives. Two objectives of my miserable perception.  Joyful and dark, each with their own end, their own start. A stark terror of fear, rejection of joy, of a happy poise. As whispers of hopeful ploys, ladled i...

 Stop Chasing That Rabbit!  When the rabbit gets away and you are now lost. Spinning in circles without any knowledge of where it could be. When the rabbit is just out of grasp and you feel the success of capture at your fingertips but it eludes you.  When everything feels to be in place, but the next day all is lost once again. And you forgot to call that one person for that one thing. Now you are scrambling to fix the situation. You're looking for what went wrong, why did you forget?  Then, you see that rabbit run by. You try again, to capture it, but again, it escapes your attempt to catch it. Again you are lost in a twirl of failure or a light touch of exhaustion, allowing it to roam free.  All through life, you are running around trying to keep the rabbit in the cage. To keep things in line and even the most repetitious things at one point slip your mind. Maybe you are overwhelmed maybe, you are doing so well things you thought were important sl...

Alone among the Rain Though the rain shall pour and I may sit alone atop a bench in an empty park. I have my dreams, my imagination and the pages I hold in my hand. Pages that are to be written as I wish. To be read as I mean them to be read.  Though this be an empty moment, a shallow grave for many thoughts. I shall continue thinking, being, doing. I shall live in the rain if I must, a constant wash of my suffering. I sit between the darkness and light, as do you.  In a struggle to not lean one way more than the other and sometimes I do. Sometimes the demons grasp my ribs and pull me. Sometimes the angels hold my heart and I allow such an embrace. I know demons be thy enemy, no matter their words.  But I am but a human. A soul torn from the eyes of god set upon this earth to fight. To win my way to my everlasting love. To raise up my wings and fly or set down my feet and walk. It is I who designs the story I read. It is I who sits alone among this cold night...

 What is Your Why? Before you begin on a journey of discovery, before you start down the path of your heart. Ask, what is your reason for such an attempt? Why step into the passion of your heart? What do you want from it? Glory? Fame? Wealth? Freedom? Health? Love? All the above?   These are questions I believe all should ask themselves before they leap from their edge and spread their wings. For one needs a destination and that destination is the why. Without a why, you are surely to fly above the clouds only to end up falling, crashing to earth in a blaze of exhaustion.   I am not saying you shall fly forever the moment you find your why. For there may be many why's you find before you find the one that holds to you. The one that truly sparks you to start and never stop. I have fallen many times from my why's before ever landing on the one that has kept me going.   I have risen as a phoenix many a times. I have watched my wings crumble beneath ...

These Marshes Bring no Peace  I thought I was safe here, far from everyone and everything I know. I am alone, I cast myself from the horrid reaches of memories. Crowded between marshes and rivers, a place only I know of. Yet, here I am, shrouded in stress, in misery.  But I have all things I need. I have my home, food, water, and shelter. I have peace, I have the silence of the night so that I may think. Yet, I am still haunted, haunted by visions of what was. Mistakes streak my dreams like a filth covered window of neglect.  I hear voices of former loves whisper in the soft silence of nature. The frogs belch of memories, calling out names, out agony. The crickets, rubbing their legs together spread shadows of doubt upon myself during the humid heat of the night.  I have no mirrors in my home. Why? For I feel a reflection of myself will only drag me back to what I miss. I dare not even look to the waters of the marsh except in the night. For there is not ...

We Prepare Ourselves   We prepare ourselves in the rising sun or the sinking moon. We wake either in preparation of sadness or joy. Allowing the flakes of our agony to be our weather or the light of our hearts be our path. We prepare ourselves as we see ourselves.  Creating visions of rotting flesh or growing bones of strength. We sink or we rise with each waking morning. Sparking our day to begin, whether it be in the shadows of our pain or in the smile of our joy. We prepare ourselves with how we think.  We battle with instinct, to shrivel or fight. Allow burdens to be our predators or our prey. Shedding our fur to lighten our load, or hold dear to the dreary cold. We are what we design in the thrills of our being.  Lecture with care for the mind follows well. Seeking shelter from any enemy, even ourselves. We must learn to prepare for ourselves. We are quick addicts to pain but slow to happiness, to gratitude. For it is easier to crumble under pre...

Do You Feel Me Changing  I am falling, can you feel that? The cold and awkward feel of being transformed. I am drifting into something I can't explain. I am feeling a void of myself, I am feeling, of something else. Voices plague the fractures of my mind. Courting a temptress of lies, trying to walk me down a path of exposed wounds. Cattled are my scars, grouped in the abandoned stairwell of my heart. I am suffocated by this unwanted extension of myself. The pain, at which has no name. Strange echoes speak in the distance as I wake. Alive I feel, but am I something else, someone else? I hear them, I now speak with them. Before, it was just me, alone inside my head. Now I am clustered with many. Formed in the malpractice of my own mind, but not at my hand. Confused, yet I believe, I constrict my thoughts to their wishes. Most of those whom I know, are now mere shadows of my life. Family has become a fleeting picture. Arguments collide in the halls of my home. Tears ...

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...

Why Does This Heart Beat?  How does this work, my heart? Why does it hold its rhythm though I do not dance? Does it not see the agony that hangs from it? Does it no see the shrill of misery that flows from the spit of my tongue? Its lush beats keep these ragged bones shivering. Though they shiver in fear they find reason to build. To stay attached to the fibers that hold it together. I walk with these bones and I hear them murmur in the cracks of my joints. I hear them, the creaking, the screaming, the bitter exhaustion of wanting rest. But still I move, as does my heart. But why drag this withering body through the fields of the ripe? I tend poorly to my own flesh, my own soul. Why does this heart bleed so, breathing in, exhaling the platelets of my body? Does it know what I do not? Is there a song I have yet to compose, a poem I have yet to spill, or a heart I have yet to break? This strange thing beneath this rugged chest. It beats, it holds rhythm and song; all ...

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 fr...

Problems Are Welcomed  Where to start in this continual world?  So many choices and so much to do, but it feels as if there is little time. But does time not become unrestrained when we become captured by that which finds joy in our heart? Do we not disappear into the activities that bring us jubilation and separate our happiness from our burdens, our worries? So quickly time can pass when one is tinkering in the bliss of soulful pleasure. Whether it be the striking of strings or the writings of words, or maybe, even the carving of wood. But so much is accomplished in this enchanted thrill of self. Much sorrow controls our decision, or at least, we allow it such power. Worry forms in the aging of our time, slowly cultivating the teething wars of anxiety. We string our problems like webs, living on them, stepping across each as if they will fade upon avoidance. We act as if no others bear these webs as do ourselves.  That problems bear no reason but ...

Our Overthinking Into Fear Where do you go, what do you do, how do you do it? This I cannot tell you, for we are complex in our overthinking. We bring in thoughts that hinder us, thoughts built upon pretenses. On things we have given life to from the curation of others. We build fears from observations or our quickly fading past.  And as we live by these absurd fears, we only bring our demise early. We become a withering flower to the ever falling sun. Only to become a decayed skeletal of wasteful tears.  And those mornings we wake in the arms of melancholy, or the strangling of our throats from the tedious hands of anxiety. We fondle our thoughts, ourselves, to the glutenous mouth of doubt.  We worry for things that have yet to happen, or have already happened. We bring fear through fiction of what horrors we believe shall transpire. Rather than what beauty may result in the attempt to go beyond our fear. And if we are such magnificent creatures,...

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. ...