the wind whistles
through the empty
branches. the leaves
are few and far between.
but still there.
hanging.
its weird isn’t it?
that the things we look at
can also
feel exactly like we do.
© Hudson Biko
Photograph by Thomas Claeys
walls.
the walls were white
with photos plastered
across shelves.
the voices were
silent enough
to be too loud.
i was somewhere
in-between.
drowning.
© Hudson Biko
Photograph by Volkan Olmez
roses
roses have thorns
and yet
we still
find a way
to call them
beautiful
;
i’m trying to
figure out
why we still
call ourselves
broken
© Hudson Biko
Photograph by Kendall Lane
blue
it was about midday.
the branches were low.
a lawn mower
hovered
above the sound of the birds
lined against the silence
of the sky.
the blue
was bleeding.
in
and out.
© Hudson Biko
haunted
often
growing up
after a fall
i was told
to let the wounds
be.
that the best
way for their
healing
was their solitude.
that scars could come
but most would
go.
and i would be better.
it is a weird thing.
for i am all grown now.
and i
try
and try
and try
let the wounds be.
and it just doesn’t seem to work anymore
© Hudson Biko
Photograph by Matheus Ferrero
cold
there is a rise
to the shadows.
a consistency
to the chasing.
a repetition
to the tension.
a coldness
to the blankets.
a darkness that stays.
© Hudson Biko
Photograph by Jesús Rocha
Frustrations
Fable legs give way to loud voices
that echo across walls
cracking underneath
their shortfalls
at thirty to midnight
As thirsty
lungs
inflate
in bated
breath
Drowning
in
withheld words,
that
somehow,
strangle us
and
throw us,
across internal walls
made of frustration
and desperation
In a cracking room
that’s somewhat
falling apart
because you
couldn’t hold yourself
t o g e t h e r
you only
tethered
on cracks
you created
Because you let your fable legs
f
a
l
l
When they needed you most
And i still held you.
© Hudson Biko
Photograph: Averie Woodard
stay
sometimes.
the magnitude of memory
outweighs
the magnitude of belief.
and we stay.
© Hudson Biko
Photograph by Ryan Christodoulou
