Micah Park Biffle

Rock Bottom It's a gory scene to be at the bottom, where the rocks settle and the beast sleeps. Few come out alive, the viscous scent of misery spawns with every ripple that passes over. Creatures with eyes of ghostly red peer through the bleakness as they search in feast of the feeble. Searching out malnourished minds and bitter hearts. Pumping deceitful thoughts as the pale skin of the wretched whom have fallen to the beasts scream. Shrieking in agony to strike fear in those who have newly fallen. Creating a toxic echo that corrodes those who carry dense doubt. Worming their tongues in the ears of their victims as the beast gnaws upon their feet. Weakening their balance, creating a limbless critter to emulate its voice. It seeds into the mind of the terrified, blending with the suffering they posses. They cry out but few fight back. They become hollow shells that suffice as a bowl for the beast to place its meal; and with each meal. The beast grows and the victim bec...

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 Family Situation  His mom rushes out the door, new born in arms. Only ten years old and his father sees no reason to stay. Too young, he understands nothing of the dreadful scene that bleeds before him. His mother pleading as the young child's father rushes off in his old rusted ford. The tires screech, the moms falls to her knees crying upon the grass. Holding tightly the newly born child, it too cries in the tragedy of the moment. Woken from its slumber with no internal ability to ask why. Neither the new born nor the young boy knows the reason. The young boy feels only a sense to hide, fear curdles at his throat. But he does not cry, for he is too frightened to feel the grasp of sadness. He stands behind a tall plant that is just a few feet from the window that looks over the front yard. Peering with fearful eyes his upper lip slightly quivers as he sees his mom broken. He has no words to describe what he feels but his heart feels strange. He is pulled to come out ...

The Chapters We Fear  He sits looking to the pages before him, the ones he wrote. Turning each page with hesitation as a grim feel of grief taints his face. His eyes looking leery of what he shall read. For he knows the words that have tied themselves to these chapters. Peeling each page back with reserve but in the intent to understand. His heart drops in a constant revolution upon the turning of pages; fleeting to the boules of his gut. Moon light shimmers along side the welcoming of modest flames, it flares a shadow upon his wall. He looks to his flickering silhouette that fears the moon and candle light. It contorts with a sight of misery compelled by the wish to retreat. Snarling at the visage of what he is. He ignores the aggravating wishes of his shadow. He continues to turn the tears and blood stained pages. This book is no mere read for the weak nor the lackadaisical. It is the exact reflection of himself, of everything he has done. It is a book no man wis...

Choking On The Repressed  The door swings open, a ghastly wind rushes into the room. It takes hold his throat, he begins to choke; he struggles to his feet. Grasping at his throat his eyes strung wide he finds no passage to inhale. The candles lit upon his mantel fall. They catch fire to his antique rug. Suddenly the windows that overlook the valley lift open. More wind fills the grim space. The flames rise higher with the rushing presence of air. He continues to stumble around the room gasping for relief. The more he fights, the closer he feels at the foot of death. Visions begin to emerge, all those before him manifest from the raging flames and the dancing smoke. Voices eclipse his thoughts, darkness overwhelms his senses. A cold yet warmth gathers at his chest. He's sees a figure standing above him looking down as he falls upon his back begging for assistance. But the figure does nothing to repress the violent strangle that holds. His vision starts to blur, sweat ...

Make Not a Decomposing Heart Hearts will come and hearts will go, some will be welcoming. Some will be harsh, plucking yours as if a cherry; feasting upon it for the delight of their own appetite. Savoring the nectar that flows upon their lips like a wine cast from the ages. But yours shall always stay, and it may harden through the harsh travels ahead. Maybe it already has. Maybe it weighs of stone and beats of tar. But it is your heart, and no others can understand it. You must learn to preach to it, spill your pain to the vastness before you. Write it upon the walls of your ribs. Allowing no wounds to fester, be not a melancholic wanderer. Ending dead in actions of others, as if a counter part of Poe. Life is no downward slop. It is a path of treacherous and loving things. It will bleed you dry if you let it. It will bury you beneath the soils of earth before you even die. It can cause disdain upon those around you, though you be the sickness that ill's you. But lif...

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...