Little Things

On mornings like these 

when trees sway

to chirping birds

and herds 

of ants 

scatter

across grass

glimmering in 

morning dew 

I realize

that maybe

just maybe

these little things

are enough

That little 

is only as little 

as we allow it to be 

And I’m learning to be okay with that 

©  Hudson Biko   

Hey there! Thank you for reading that. 😊 I’m currently away for a little bit so I may not be able to respond to your comments or messages but I look forward to reading them when I get back!

❤️

Biko

Light

 

Consciousness

sinking

sinking

sinking

sank

blissfully

underneath blankets

and blank eyes

thirsting for sovereignty

after living

five feet above ground

in worlds

filled by empty words

and broken ideality

Subconsciousness

collapsing

as

vibrations

forge their

way in pulses

through

still air

Reality

slowly brought

to actuality

Erasing

fragments

of brief

escape

created

prior to

7.34 am

Gates opened

Eyes blank

Floating

 

© Hudson Biko

 

 

Dark

The room was dark.

Sweat poured

from pores

to heart

to skin

to sheets

that held

houses drowning

in pools

of fear

collected from

racing hearts

held stagnant

and hurt

from abandoned

identities

and created

fallacies

As i watched those

that dared to leave

so they could live

run and

run and

run

in to unlit rooms

of 5.31 AM

Morning

 

© Hudson Biko

 

Clockwork

ioana-casapu-279832.jpg

Eyelids flicker

as rotating

hands

as giant as

ants blow

unfathomed

possibilities

held

in revolving

days I watch

dissipate

from

maelstroms

of

insouciant

realities

i call

“Could have beens”

disappear into

realms

of regret

i keep holding on to

when they were

never mine to begin with

 

and i cant stop them

 

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Iona Casapu

 

 

 

 

 

Redefined

Pieced By HB

Wil Stewart.jpg

Redefined trajectories

are

facets

of

a/the

greater

trajectory.

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Wil Stewart

View original post

2.am

tim-trad-198063.jpg

living in this paradox of mobility and immobility.

Watching hours turn into days,

days into months,

months into years,

years into lifetimes,

diluted into an infinity of others that existed before us

as we stayed silent in these corrugated lines

living on the margins of timelines

that cut through rationality

with thin blades piercing

as we found ourselves

asking if this is

living

at all

 

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Tim Trad

 

 

meaning

found drowning in created connotations

 

that lived in the shadows

held by

perceived permutations

where nights

protected by cold sheets

gave way to even colder mornings

as i lay

waiting for meaning in moments

like these

never finding it in I

or the eyes

that stared back

maybe now i do

 

© Hudson Biko

 

 

Memories

sharon-christina-180704.jpg

Memories hang at the precipice of nightfall

Each somewhat held by familiar voices

That crack at the echos

And dissipate across galaxies

Struggling to hold

on to the fallacies

we fed ourselves

as each finger was greased

by midnight oil

And encouraged to let go

Encouraged to b r e a k

 

Because parts of us already did

Because

Parts of us

hanged at the precipice for a little to long

Because

Parts of us struggled to get full on to the fallacies we fed ourselves

Because

Parts of us

Weren’t us

And

they never will be.

 

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Sharon Christina

 

 

Do Things At Your Own Time

quino-al-101314.jpg

I think that sometimes we forget

That we aren’t meant to be anywhere.

That we don’t have deadlines or regulations.

That at this very moment,

We are formulating and experiencing our own distinct journeys.

Journeys that aren’t regulated or paralleled by pre-conceived expectations

But by our own doing.

Exactly when we need to.

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Quino Al

  • Picked and edited from an earlier essay I wrote and came across today. 💫❤️

Enough

leonard-von-bibra-166924.jpg

The sky was painted in shades of light blue mixed with touches of reflection, introspection and thoughts that refused to be let go. As

clouds sporadically set semblances of their existence into transient open spaces in a sun that fell halfway past an afternoon. As

they flew above us consuming spaces left untaken by the madness that perpetuated in the spaces we kept hidden. As

we realized that we are only a reflection of Is brought together and eyes that stare into a distance we will never reach. As

we realize that we will never have open skies.

That we will never fly.

That we are set.

That we are exactly what we are.

And that most times:

That that’s enough.
© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Leonard von Bibra