Drained

Dave Meier.jpg

You gave

to those

that only

knew how

to take

And then

wondered

why it

always felt

so empty

( can we give too much? )

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Dave Meier

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

 

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

Survive

Annie Spratt (2).jpg

You feel it in the air sometimes

lingering

in its repetition

In its own rendition

of the sound

made by

swarms

of bees

Buzzing

In hives

that survive

the strands

of time

In time

Still stinging

and ringing

In metaphorical ears

that even after

all these years

Still

kinda

sound the same

Still

kinda

feel the same

Maybe slightly kinder

to ears

less fragile

after years

of buzzing

But the stings

never heal

No,

those ones stay

Those ones

linger

Morphing into

what we try

to be

Those ones

become

our own rendition

of the bee

that once stung

And maybe that’s all we ever really needed

Maybe that’s our buzz

 

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Annie Spratt

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

moving on

jake-thacker-113197.jpg

if moving on really is acceptance

my heart shouldn’t

still feel this

heavy

( should it? )

 

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Jake Thacker

Overthought

ian-dooley-298769.jpg

Words knock at the precipice of lips

like scratched CDs stuck in players

looping in frequencies

of infrequency

( some things are harder to say )

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: Ian Dooley

Yellow

Flashes of yellow

and streaks of

orange scatter

across a sky

that stays

still at

five to

six am

letting

light infuse

its darkness

with perceptions

of new beginnings as

if endings ever existed

in the first place

( calling it sunrise )

 

Voices

ahmed-ashhaadh-337500.jpg

Voices continue to scream in silent rooms

As sanity is swept by brooms

reeking of remembrance

at ten to three am

( eyelids shut )

 

© Hudson Biko

Photo by Ahmed Ashhaadh

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

warren-wong-277326.jpg

 

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.

You

shttefan-280960.jpg

You let yourself in.

You

walked through doors

and floors

covered by a myriad of flaws

we never bothered to look at

,

You

placed your self

on internal shelves

I never wanted

to reach

,

You

barricaded your self

on levels which

were never warranted

,

You

collected dust

in bursts

dispersed

across the worst

outbursts

never previously rehearsed

,

You

went through phases

we called faces

in vases

always held

until they fell apart

;

But

you

Were never let in.

You

Never bothered to look at.

You

Never wanted to reach,

You

Were never warranted,

You

Never previously rehearsed,

You

Were always held.

Until

You fell apart.

 

© Hudson Biko

Photograph: SHTTEFAN

Woke

Pieced By HB

Benjamin Combs.jpg

I woke up to it

Threading itself

into threads

that barely held together

,

Staining the

stains

that only stayed

because they

could

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

View original post