Micah Park Biffle

Be Homeless I hear it a lot, that the day sucks, life sucks, or something sucks. I hear people complain as if everyone is out to get them. I hear people complain because something they bought at the store is fifty cents more than what the listing in the stores coupon book said. I hear people complain because they don't have a nice car, or a house. I hear people complain all the time about the lamest things ever. People complaining about situations they put themselves in and then bitch about how they got screwed. People complain about being pulled over when they broke the law.....hint, you broke the law. Worst part is, I used to be one of these people. A mouth full of complaints like a fat kid in cupcake shop. I was rampant about complaining with every breath I had. But today's thought is not about me, it is about those that fill mouths with complaints. It is about thinking deep into something you are not and hope you would never wish to be. It is about catching ...

  She Weeps  Oh and she weeps. She weeps among the stars and the sadness in her eyes. She looks in her reflection and she is burdened. She sees only the darkness that runs along her skin like scales. But she finds no season to shed it.  She is ambushed in her tears. Cornered by the splitting of her thoughts. She is encumbered by noise, by the bristles of her mind. Pricked with each passing second as she tries to allude to something else. To anger, to hope, to anxiety, to coldness, or the hollow halls of the numb.  To anything but this miserable feeling of existence. Feeling useless in the breaking of her world. Watching as villains swarm her cosmos like the flames of hell. Oh she weeps in terror as her makeup cracks upon her face. Disgusted, she turns away. Looking to the far spaces between the vast expanse of space. Her eyes delicate, like fractured glass of an old church. She stares into the void of the empty black. Seeing only the lonely sparks that ar...

   My Execution of Love Do as you wish, this heart is a traveler of darkness. Scars have found home upon my heart like termites to rotting foundation. Day by day my heart slowly crumbles, it is nothing without you. Without us.   I am catatonic to love. Frozen in the position of melancholy. A possession of dark clouds have gathered in my mind. I wear a cloak of obsession, an obsession to drown this catastrophic wound.   My floors are covered in lust as I pounce from lips to lips. Seducing the hearts as bleak as mine. But no matter the sedation, I can hear you, feel you. My eyes are green, envious of your ease to cope; to find another.   I have shriveled to bone, to dust. Place me in your hand and I will be blown to the faintest wind. Wild images of darkness shade my thoughts. But if I had the chance to tell you of these, would you even care or would you do as you did when you left?   Walking in blankness as if nothing had meaning. It hurt, our...

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...

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 ...

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 l...

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 crook...

A King, Greed and Ego A man of highest praise was he. His kingdom filled with gold and every pleasure his mind could ever conceive. And with these riches came his finger of greed, his ego along side it. Greed and ego became great friends, they fed off each other like addiction. Always wanting more, in the constant need of a fix. Conquer many lands did he. And as his kingdom grew, so did his greed, his ego. He was the best dressed, the best spoken, educated, and best looking. But he never left the confines of his kingdom, and his father before him, allowed no mirrors. One might find this odd, but not his father. For his father became in his own reflection, as does this king, the son. After conquering the last kingdom that was approachable by land. The king decided it was safe for him to pasture out into the world. He had his soldiers guide him to the first kingdom he conquered. And along the way he made sure to boast about his achievements to all he passed. Every village f...