Pieced Weekly

A Handpicked, Weekly Collection




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


and created


of hope

As i watched those

that dared to leave

so they could live

run and

run and


in to unlit rooms

of 5.31 AM



© Hudson Biko

Photograph by Peyman Naderi



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



The clock

tick tocks

in backdrops

of silence

As feelings

of absence

sit here

in thoughts

that speak

in streaks

of emotions

left unattended

And it’s still you.


© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Arvin Febry



It Might Take A While To Get There and That’s Not a Bad Thing



Most times when we step onto a path we know where it’s going to lead. When we can’t see where that is we find comfort in the footprints that precede us.  And when its bleakest to see we listen for the voices that have left their remnants along the way in the hope that they guide us.

At times, our own paths look nothing like that.

They’re more like driving on roads with no roads signs to unknown destinations.  They’re more like finding comfort in the virtues of our own expectations. They’re more like listening to the voices of those that have done it before in the hope that we might one day.

They mostly sound like “Rome wasn’t built in a day” or “Good things come to those who wait” – or some quote behind some waterfall on Instagram.

And there’s times when we internalize those voices or see those destinations and play them out in our heads in the hope that they’ll become our reality – and maybe there’s times when they make that road slightly more bearable.

But sometimes we wake up and realize that we don’t want to build Rome.  That we just want to finish that degree. Or get that promotion. Or get to that thing that shouldn’t take as long as it is.

And in those moments we want something to make that path smoother.

We want to remove the rocks, the pebbles and the dirt.

Often its because we think that those impurities on our path are deflections from our own direction. We look at them like obstacles to the place we want to go to.

We often don’t think of paths as compilations of impurities. Of obstacles overcome time and time again.

And even though it might have taken a while, they were moulded by their own to process to become what they are today.

And that’s not a bad thing.


© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Warren Wong

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


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




Tongues twisted

and lips burned

As taste was lost

in the words

that transpired

over morning cups

reeking of hesitation

and spoons of resignation

( Slowly brewing )

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Drew Taylor

Inspired by the Daily Prompt: Tea


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.