Micah Park Biffle

    Digging your own Grave?   How eager your lips spill with contempt for any step you must take. Never forced to be as you are, yet you slither with slime, sulking in the suffering of your own making. Your eyes drivel with tears as if the world should feel pity.   Your back slouched in answer of your own lack of self confidence. You confine your sorrows in drinks or, the bitter taste of your sour tongue. Contorting words with jealousy as you waddle your way with billowed blame.   Your heavy heart rests at the bottom of your gut, like a forgotten memory, rotting. Stuck in a rut, your eyes fixed downward. Looking to your feet as you raise your hand to the sky with a finger of criticism of those that speak well.   You kneel as the soils beneath your frail bones become sullied in tears. No longer can it bear the standing pressure of your chiding thoughts. You must spread your weight upon your soft ground. Your foundation is uncertain. ...

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...