Micah Park Biffle

   The Wild West  My father sprung from the porch and swept me up in his arms. At first I was not alarmed, as a young girl I thought for a moment he was playing with me. But as he picked me up and I giggled he gave no equal response.   I looked up, his face was stern with worry. His eyes gazed into the horizon as the sun started to sink behind the short cascade of desert hills. I then looked over as well and there in the distance like walking shadows, were six men riding horses.   We often got visitors at our home. We were near a central road for travelers. Which we often gave them a place to rest as long as they respected our rules. But these visitors, if you could even call them that were not the usual kind.   My father rushed me into the house and told me to lock the door in stay inside. I was then overcome with fear. My father shut the door and I locked it. As he shut it I saw him reaching for his pistol that was slung over his chair on the ...

  Mirror Hill    Today, I take myself to the edge of Mirror Hill. It has been a long day, a day where I feel lost, dropped from my path and left to wander with idle wrath. Fighting to keep myself from breaking into million different parts. Only to end up as a broken as a doll on a shelf praying for the aging girl to pick me up. But times change and I must accept that I am no longer the hot toy of today. So I must work, change, find myself a better me, a better way, adapt to that which will give me praise.  And here I am, ink and page, sitting atop Mirror Hill, where it leaps to the bounds of the clouds and is found to be the place of quiet sounds and inspiration. Do not get mixed that this shall be thoughts of rhymes, I merely took trap to my own often annoying scheme to rhyme.   So let us begin, let us drive our eyes into the thoughts of my aging bones and fading mind.   There secretes this bitter taste of lemons from this open view. I s...

A Pocket Flower   I breathe upon the cold morning glass as I look out into the open plains of the country. And with my finger I draw a heart splitting in two, it quickly fades. I look back out into the world and design a new one.   I let my senses roam wild as imagination rushes from my head like water. Flooding my view with bountiful ideas. I see titans clashing, gods fighting, I see mysteries lingering in the lonely mist. I see monsters creeping from the distant moons and music flow gently from the darkened woods.   I watch golden leaves fall as the sun begins to rise. The soft tone of frozen grass begins to sparkle. I see birds thrust from their nests and chirp to the vast outreaches of nature. I am overwhelmed by what I see, and I smile.   I breathe again upon the cold morning glass. But this time, I draw a single heart held together. I let it fade as the last, but this time I breathe upon the glass once more. I observe the heart I drew with much thou...

   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...

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 ...

Lies Blew up Our Planet  I watched as it all erupted like clay tossed against stone. Piece by piece, the world was flung into the far reaches of space. My capsule was one of the last to have launched. I was only eight at the time. But I will never forget the feeling. Though I was young to the world and had a very short time; of even a morsel of what the world truly was. It felt as if a part of me had been ripped from my chest. I can still remember the colors that world presented us. It was a bold array of showered hues. Even in the most harsh of environments you could find something to awe the eyes and heart.  All those shows on TV that explored the world and brought it to our living rooms was astounding. So much to be seen and so little time to enjoy it. Sadly, my time was much shorter than many thanks to ever greedy needs of those who wished us no ability to advance. We were sunk back to almost the 21st century.  I remember all the commercials and n...

A Murdered Love of War Three hundred and sixty-five days since she held him in her arms. Her whole body swept up in anxious fright and joy. She thinks to herself, "Will he remember me? Will he still love me?" She throws on her best dress and lipstick; looks herself in the mirror and says, " I am gonna go the hair salon and strike myself the hair of an angel!" Still looking herself in the mirror she twirls around with a large smile, "Oh my, I can feel my heart beating against my chest." She smiles and lets out a small giggle. She stops twirling and slides her hands down her sides, over her hips to make sure the dress forms perfectly to her body. She then places a hat upon her head to hide her wild hair before it is touched by her stylist Mary. She quickly steps over to her closet, picks up her red heels and she rushes out her room and down the stairs. She reaches the bottom of the stairs and places on her heels. While struggling to keep her ...

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...

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 Master Piece of Beauty  This distant feel calls from the stars. A strange but warming sensation, my heart beating in a fluttered pen of wings. My gut, twisted, but warm; I feel, what one would say, nervous and happy. It feels as if the stars are being flirtatious in with their presence. Turning cheeks and batting eyes, and I, no thought on how to react. I blush, turning my eyes to the ground like a child nervous upon his first kiss. My skin, feels light, almost as if its pulling me to the heavens. A wisp of air catches my cheeks and I am warmed by a smile. I pursue in pleasure of the moment, though my tongue quivers in anxiety. I am lost for words, for the beauty I am presented before my tired soul. Is elegant, its vibrant, its.....unspeakable. Why has it revealed itself to me? I am but just another soul seeking fortitude among the cold and lonely snow. Following trails of footsteps before they are taken by the rain. Washed away, never to be seen again, fleeting to t...

The Angst of Success and Popularity There is this angst to complete it now. To bring forth the riches that others posses. To force ones self into the putrid greed of material. To breathe in the vile waves of the rotten and live in the physical. I am saddened by this wish of existence. This existence to find one in the overwhelming need to present ones self as if to be a king or queen. But know nothing of how to delegate their actions, their emotions. They hold dear to show fashion, that supposedly makes them tingle, makes them smile. But dreary is the possessor of the concrete, the possessor who lives for nothing other, than the popularity of self. Shadows rot the cavities of their soul, but they speak of it not. They latch image, an image that is baked in the sugars of man. Only to be swallowed by the naive, the young, the reckless. The teachers of wisdom, the elders of experience, and ears to listen, have been plucked. Few gardens grow the willingness to be patient, to l...

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 ...

Swing From The Willow  Swing from the Willow, find peace in the rain be no stranger to silence. The wolves prowl but you bleed with no fear. The roots from which you stand are yours, embraced, entwined in the essence of your breath. Your eyes have seen the darkness. You have felt the presence of the unholy, of wretched suffering. You have walked amidst the narrow of death and life, living between in a hollowed bosom. But now you have bound yourself to the exploration of ego. You leave no tears to fall in vein. Your soul reaches heaven, as does it hell. But you are no fool to the devil, and are no virtue to heaven. Your lips are turned inward, only to uncoil in speech that you find worthy. Your eyes give you sight no more to the bleak. The haze that follows you no longer blurs your vision to its ever anxious dwelling. You breathe with purpose and give no moment without grace. And though you are wrapped in the unfortunate of scars, you praise them each in their own way....

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,...

What Keeps You Moving? What keeps you afloat in this drowning but dazzling world? Is it the flowers that bloom regardless of how bitter or harsh winter was? Do you find the drive to keep pressing on because of your children, your family, or friends? Or is it the fear of ever falling back to where you were? To lose all you have gained and become the frail pawn of sadness once more. To plummet to that dark alley where the scathing embrace of misery laid its head. Where the repugnant aroma of suffering breathed it breath. Leaving you soiled in its heated fluids of loathing. Causing the shivering of your soul as if to be a lonely child to the abuse of an unsightly offender. That empty room where you consumed the darkest thoughts as if it would bring hope. That addiction of agony that few truly understand. That excruciating feeling of wishing to expire and succumb to the insufferable call of death. What keeps you going? For what ever keeps you going, I pray the clari...

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...

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 ...

 A Romance of The Broken  I love you, Those three words, a massacre did they bring. My heart strung in agony for the world to see. To watch me bleed with boiling agony that not even I could contain. And with no sympathy, you packed your instrument of love, never to play by my side again.  I became an abandoned piano in the dust of your empty heart. And your lips turned sour with the mere thought of my yearning for your soul. A distant hand did you become as you vanished the recesses of my mind. Still, I gave you a place in my heart, though yours was a chamber of murder for mine.  I could not leave what I prayed would spark a new. That in the hour of midnight you would call to me. Not for the longing of an ear. But for the blooming desire of love, for something beyond what had been planted.  But with each passing night, I became but a mere poet of lonely stanzas. Not even the rays of the sun brought me hope. I grew dreary in the confines ...

A Death For Pleasure A man, torn from his life as if he were a rat infesting the dinning of a king. Captured, thrown to the beasts for entertainment. His family, lost to fields of wheat and the unfortunate greed of men. Surrounded, his heart bears no resemblance of who he was.  Stained in the blood of strangers, survival is a must. Cheers are the only constant in his life, the uproar of crowds. Sweat brows his eyes as sun basks in thickened heat. His throat dry, but his soul beats, though weak in the bared living he has now.  He must not kneel to the fear before him. For he is still a warrior of his breath, giving no solace to his enemies. Though they wish to reap the same award, a life of freedom. A severed head rolls from a mighty swing of steel.  The air cut with a whistling of blades. The rumbling of the crowd silents the struggles of the men pitted in desperation to live. Men with seething teeth of gambling stand in intensity, as they begin to seco...

There is pain in us all, feel it, express it, grow from it A Man's Traveled Heart The Loathing Of A Monday Its Monday, I pull my sheets from my body with lethargic disappointment. My eyes gradually sinking to the floor to see the hurdled mess I must overcome. My throat dry, my mind in a groggy haze of sleep. And as I slide my feet to the floor the cool care nibbles at my skin. I express my discomfort of the morning with a sigh of resentment. Pressing myself off my bed I stand with a slight slouch of the back. I start to walk, and as I walk I let my eyes tirelessly follow the smudges and scrapes that flourish the wooden floor. It is still somewhat dark in the house. I mind it not as it keeps me in a state of dreamlike existence. As if I have yet to face the reality that is today. But as I enter the bathroom, I am forced to light the torch, instantly I regret its intense glow. Flickering shadows of my tired frame, my silhouette looking of a ghastly ghoul. After resisting...