Micah Park Biffle

Dismal be The Headless  It is dismal, this place. The walls have degraded with each passing day. I no longer feel it is my home. I feel my own skin wishing to retreat from my bones. I am alone in the empty space I call home. Settled with spiders, roaches, and more.  The floors are covered in the dreary existence of debt, of soul, heart, and wealth. I don't know, but I pray someone may come and help. But I am poorly suited for company. The least I can do is dust off this shelf.  Be presentable in at least a moment. For a moment I can hold it together. Keeps myself from fluttering away like a feather lost in wind. There must be a way I can step up and win. This place is riddled in filth.  I now walk on stilts. In fear of touching my own ground. Beneath this miserable pile of sludge, underneath it all, is my crown. But I gave it up long ago, I turned over my crown to the day I let myself down.  I could feel myself drown. As I flailed for my crown. Out...

Self Medicating   She hears the shrills of her mind cry with seething agony. The world feels of lonely burdens and recluse feelings. Leaving her numb to the expectation of self. Her skin pulls taught at each moment of breath.  A ceiling of falling emotions cloud her heart. Her eyes pale to the moonlight. She is quiet in her words but loud in her head. She walks with a smile upon her face as she knows it is fake. Popping pills to feel okay. Listening to music to drown out the pain but nothing keeps her in frame.  She buckles the moment she is home from work. Her house in shambles from neglect as faces of sadness seep from the walls. Tears fall, but no relief is given as her pillow is her only companion to console.  She knows her heart is bitter in the lonesome wails of her past. But so bruised, so scarred, she is held by rigid fear. Her own family she has distanced as the pain is only thing she knows. Her face, in a perpetual drama of shame, of gui...

My Life At the Edge   My life's on edge, a vertical swing. I see the stars from which I cling, staring to the ground and wonder how it will feel, when I fall, I'm sure it will sting. All the while my heart sits at edge, slipping, I sing. Allowing a fantasy to be, pretending there is nothing that is aching.  My bones creak as the shadows creep. Coldness flows upon each step and I shiver as I weep. I have yet to feel clean, no matter the wash, I wish to glow. Always asking, why me, why the sudden stop of what made me happy? I bend with twists and turns as life is what ever it will be.  I turned my tongue from complaints, to high aim. Adding new strings to my instrument as my soul sits in its sling. Pondering a new place to live, to breathe, to be. But there is no escaping, breaching what leaves us both babbling at the edge.  No more terrible aiding of sour lips. No more firing from the hips, yet here I am blocked by what ever is behind this mist. I mis...

A Morning  A small boat upon the open waves. Settling clouds atop the mountain crest, a thin fog hugs the earth. Brisk winds hold the shores. Foot prints taken by receding seas. A breath of fresh air fills the lungs of lonely souls. Caffeinated steps proceed the waking morning. Melodic tunes play softly in busy halls. Trees waver to the cool wind. Swaying with no agency to be. Quiet tears fall from broken hearts, sheets hold the lonesome. An empty glass stained in lips of red. Sour aroma lingers from the mouth.  Rain tumbles with urgency to flood what begs to hold. Washing away dusted cheeks; hesitation to step out grasps the flesh. Eyes interpret the morning view. Hazed in a daze of last nights time. Lethargic tones whisper among the head. Clouds cover the blue, rejecting the season to be new. Gloom disperses the sun, leaving minds numb in hope with empty rhythm. The carrying of pollen leaving septum's to run. Insects victim to the spectrum of predator tongu...

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 t...

The Hollow Horrors Of Melancholy  I close my eyes in rest. But I am no fool to what shall find me in my slumber. For my viscous melancholy has the say in my dreams. It has suffocated the colors that once flourished in the springs of my dreams.  It has coiled its leather body around the serene. Strangling the geysers of my imagination and I run dry of design as I seek to be clean. This demon, be it the spreading of the deranged, of my decaying brain. It flairs its wings and parades it fangs with each sleepless night at the strike of twelve thirteen.  Its eyes, darker than any hue of ink you have ever seen. Its breath like the heat of candle held to close to flesh. Its screeches as if it too, has become the victim of the horrific. Of the wicked workings of sadness and the obscene.  I would find no surprise to see that which haunts me. Is but another running from their horrors, but they have drowned to the cursed ravine. Now they haunt others for the ...

A Soul Which Forsakes Vision  I spin in infliction upon my barren stretch of the smitten lands that once held life with strength. But I have become beaten, my breath no longer an apron to catch the stains of my soul. I have begun the end of the beginning, I have been bitten. The vampire phantom of the broken has come for my salvation. Its palate distinguished for this exact occasion, surely my crimson blood shall be forgiven.  Blood thirsty have I become in my wake of passive caution in the ingestion of toxins. Slay me of my burdens, strain me of tension, bring me addiction to the poisoning of my vision. Leave me blackened as one would be in the annihilation of the sun. Allow me the appeasement of death from the inhalation of the deceased. As if caught in disease of the maddened. Strip me of my muscles of the mental and bring madness to my beacon. I am now up for auction, the highest bidder take my canon. Fire me from your tongue and let me do your bidd...

Rapture Your Soul  A splendid rapture of the soul can lead one to become well. To cleanse the envious toils of the heart and mind. Rinse clean the absolute disgust the recedes in the darkest crevasses that one fears to reach. We carry cobwebs that need to be brushed. But we fear them, as they look of webs. A dwelling for eight legs and venom. Ignore them do we, fearful watching as the wind sways them delicately. Clean them? But what if a creature lives within them, ready to kill what life we have left? Well so be it, at least an attempted to become healthy in spirit gave you hope to become something new. Clinging to filth is nostalgic, memories riddle the old. We hold dearly as we angst they may be useful later on.  But when has a cluttered heart of antiques led one to be profound in themselves? By all means keep the scars of lessons, but do not hold tight to what only brings burden. Scratch the regret from the mind and polish it for something greater. ...

Depression Tips Its Hat Here I am, in a strange world, a place untouched by me. My thoughts squander on the edge of lonely. Soaking up the this odd air around me. My heart feeble in its rhythm, depression walks in, tipping its hat with a smile. I grin, as I know him well, but never wish him to stay. He sits now, at the foot of my soul, waiting, just for that inch. That unprotected second I fall to his dull whimsical show. Playing lullabies I thought were laid to rest long ago. But this place, this strange place untouched by me. Reeks of the familiar, reeks of left over crumbs of my suffering. And I try, I try, I swear I am trying. Keeping the hunger at bay, the hunger to envelope this appetite to crumble. To set fire what minutes ago was happiness. What a gallant smile stretched across my face in excitement just moments ago. But somewhere, somehow, from there to here. It disappeared, it became a ghost to my presence. No, leave me be, I say, as depression tries to worm its...

Find more stories like this in, A Man's Traveled Heart tHe iLL WiLL oF SeLF  Brush upon a canvass, creating a brake-less variety of colors. Coating the moments, one feels branchless in the world. Trying to find where to plant thoughts like seeds and become the brightness one needs so gravely.  But what business is left to do when one feels of a walking carcass?  Covering all basis of the damned, feeling breathless, almost brainless in the wandering of life. Ceaseless does one feel when colors do not blend. When thoughts become an eager chorus of claim-less doubts. Skirting the very breath of death, raising a blade in wishing for clearness. But only to feel as if one’s heart has become daftness to even the oldest closeness.  Disconnected in self, darkness becomes so dauntless one feels nameless in self. Puttering on the edges of thoughtless swamps. Drowning in pitiful dimness of the rash and quivering in the coldness of regret. Running from the...

Your Mind Is The Reason The World Can Design Minds meet, they think and think, build and create. They design, they speak, they leave the world in a brilliance of rhymes. Creating lines that leaves ones lips tasting like lime. Putting all things in line with the imagination of minds. For only a minute, is one in its prime. Pushing static aside, becoming alive. Let all things from the mind commit no crime. But the ones that many think, are stupid, and far from the sublime. Sometimes the mine is perfect on time. But other times, one moment the words are blind. Ideas seem to never coincide. Then out of the side. The world of words, becomes so divine. They twist and wind, like whispering vines. Why would any one wish to leave this world behind. For minds scratch and carve and slowly grow hard. But are always ready to rip ideas a far. Bringing new things that could never be thought, but from the human mind. Two lines, three lines, the chatter that strides. Bath the mind wi...

Follow me on  Twitter A Thankful Sacrifice Voices gather throughout this home, as a fire is lit, and music plays softly as children dive rigorously  into their imagination. Smells christen the air as they waltz across the sense of pleasurable memories that bring no burden.  The music delicately coats the home like the rising color of crimson along the morning horizon. All is certain in this moment as all have this day in common. No one is forgotten, no go hungry in this is this day that glistens.  Cheerful spirits lift this home from any friction and all become gladdened. The weather frosts the grounds but in here, among the fire, that plays with a hot hand of a chemical heathen. None are opposed or notice the cold. As they drink and laugh among the sweet scent of lemon.  The elders gather the children and begin to tell tales of the magical huntsman. The one that saves the princess from an evil legion. And finds himself against a tho...

A Monstrous Machine and A Simple Habit  I wish to turn something dull into something magnificent. I wish to turn the mere actions of one into something transcendent to the senses. Actions one does from the mere sake of habit: The sound of water flows from a single point. Fingers from an early morning rise find themselves delve into the flowing water. The water rushes upon the fingers like a flood. With no anticipation to stop the water falls in perfect harmony upon the skin. Caressing the flesh as it is resisted to stay. Falling quickly to the basin of its now new home.  As water rushes the fingers adjust to the rising temperature of the tempered water. As the water rises in heat. The fingers are removed from beneath the translucent life, the fingers glide back from the pouring of water. Gently the fingers clasp upon glass, raising it from a cold, silent, ivory surface.  The air is brisk, silently collective with the smells morning dew and the crisp f...

A Blissful Rhyme To Leave You In Control Of Your Mind  Listen to the silence, the cool crisp sounds that scurry through the quiet realm of an idle mind. Listen deep, listen well. Find within, the scattering of thoughts and focus upon that which whispers to you with audacious lips. Listen to whats speaks with strong but graceful tones. Listen to what lifts the shrouding chaos from the soul. Cut off from the mundane, the plain, the constant badgering of lives everyday things. For you deserve a moment and forever, to keep your mind in place with peaceful grace. Let yourself slide into bliss, let this take you from the strains of the lame and feel yourself glide like a cloud across the sky. Bury the unwanted scavengers that call out with vicious teeth. Leave them to their own doings and nefarious beliefs. Let them bleed from you like water from earth.  Find no place for the ill to set sail upon your thoughts in this moment. Calm your seas with a kiss of bri...

A Dark Path and Three Drunk Fools  Down the narrow path lies a red light, a light that flickers and shines only at night. With a carved sign that's says "no trespassing or you will die." No feet of the villagers near by, have ever dared to peer to the other side. For there is too much fear and imagination to stride.   They talk of those whom may have died upon being crucified and left to dry. To hang damnified for the horrible things they did with villagers to be sacrificed. Even stories of an ugly man who was ostracized for his looks and left to die. To be recluse and sing his tunes. Some say if you listen close enough, you can her him play the organ, with a man name Hyde.  Some speak of a child whom's spirit floats about that of the other-side, who died on a carnival ride. Though this path is hidden on a mountain side, near a village few have seen with a naked eye. This path resides world wide. Though these stories have little evidence to be cla...

This Is Me Without Creativity  This is but me without my creativity. My unwillingness to accept that not all days can be filled with perfect brevity. That some days come buried in the not so extraordinary. Where imagination is no longer merry, where my words seem to fall weary. Where I cannot seem to connect my soul to my brain. In a place that I have lost what was once perfect aim. Where words would connect without the a tongue that wishes to complain. This is me without the ability to tame. The ability to connect words that may make one seem insane. But that is where I find words that never sound the same. Where words collide in whirls like tornadoes that are looking to claim. I am not a writer for fame, but a writer to stay insane. To connect words that make me never wish to be plain. To never fall in the sewers of blame and become a dim candle in a forgotten home. This is me without the perfect tone, without the perfection of my fingers laced in chrome. Where I con...

The World Has Fallen Today  The world fell apart this morning, the music that once played upon my heart has grown silent. The world is still, but I am moving. I watch with sympathy and tears as this world tears apart. I see flowers strangled by violent hands from merely having petals of different shades. I see tongues twist from the hardest soils only to poison the innocent. I feel myself floating, lost in this chaos as I struggle to lend a hand. As I praise the goodness I see. As I spread kind words to those around me and stand against the corruption of heart. I praise the goodness with prayer, with love, with an open heart and a blade. A blade set to cut the rotted tongues from our soils. I praise goodness as I watch the floods that sweep through villages like visible plague. But I see hands reaching deep into the illness, deep into the disease and pull free the weak. Though their hands may become ill and they may pass from this life to the next. I watch in ho...

This Is Just A Rhyme There comes a time when wine becomes more thought after than last night. When its flavor becomes prey to the savoring of tongues. In relishing its fine presence that leaves the pallet feeling divine. Like the embracing of mountain tops dusted in the roots of alpine. But baselines of instrumental times, leaves the mind out right in a beautiful cry. Like waves against the coastline, the perfect symphony can leave one in a sense of blissful decline. Finding an animalistic incline. Rejecting the congested swine that divides and hides inside. Separating the soul from the mind. We align with that which we find to follow our line. Our line that presses us in grapevine. We entwine our minds with values and thoughts that complete our headline. But we live on deadlines, finding paper to pen, but let us not pretend. As though we live with a paycheck in mind, that we don't wish to be dead. Striving to reach the top but living in a madness of a bullpen. Competing wi...