Pieced Weekly

A Handpicked, Weekly Collection



Henri Meilhac.jpg


in the absence

of assurance


that this madness

will somehow


into our own deliverance

That somehow

there is more

to this

than this

That somehow

this fragments

of attachment


make us feel

less absent

That somehow


bouts of


are only temporary.



are only temporary

and this



this ‘madness’

is our deliverance.

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Henri Meilhac


Nikola Jelenkovic.jpg

Maybe our

scars only

Heal enough

to stop

The bleeding


maybe that’s

Never enough.


© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Nikola Jelenkovic


Caleb George.jpg

It was an afternoon.

As we found ourselves

sitting in rooms

silenced by those

who seek sanity

and their own silence


By those

who seek



Partially empty.


from voids

of temporary


as silence

gave in to


of sound

as it began

to feel

like the


were finally peeling






we should have

known better



on the precipice

of sound

isn’t really

escaping silence


All it ever does

is seal



in it


No matter how much we try to peel it off.


© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Caleb George



Benjamin Combs.jpg


I woke up to it


Threading itself

into threads

that barely held together


Staining the


that only stayed

because they


barely fade away


Infringing itself

on the fringes

because they

could barely hold themselves together


Because I could barely hold myself together.


© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Benjamin Combs

You’re Allowed To Stand Still

Alex Iby.jpg

We’re always going. From beds to coffee shops, to offices, places and spaces that constitute fragments of our sustenance. To crawling cars at half past four. To homes that take us back at the end of it. To dinner tables. To beds. To all of it. All over again.

Stuck in this constant grind. Moving towards our perceptions of success. Of satisfaction in a world that looks like it might move past us if we’re half past it. If we aren’t doing everything we think we’re meant to be doing. If we don’t get out of the bed to begin with.

And most times that’s part and parcel of our our own internal movement to something greater. Understanding and chasing our dreams and aspirations – even on the mornings we rather not.

But sometimes we can’t really do that.
Sometimes we can’t really go.

Maybe ‘can’t’ isn’t the right word. Because parts of us know that we have in the past. Because parts of us want to with every fibre that makes them, them. Because we’ve been told that the world doesn’t know the word “can’t” – that it moves on without us. That we can’t be left behind.

Maybe there is no right word that truly encapsulates those moments of apparent immobility. Because they feel exactly like that. Like drinking out of empty coffee mugs. Like the cars crawling. Like standing still in a world that moves past us.

But everything that surrounds us exists irrespective of us.

We are our own microcosm of a universe.

Made of everything that makes us. Of action and inaction. Of mobility and immobility. Of moments.

And in those moments when we stop to breathe, when we stand still to take in the world that surrounds and lives within us, we find our own little coffee shops.

Each facilitating parts of our own unique journey. Each making that next step that much greater. Each forming our own internal satisfaction.

Each and every one of them shaping our own microcosm of a universe. All over again.

Written By: Hudson Biko

Photograph: Alex Iby

Previously published by Thought Catalog at www.thoughtcatalog.com.