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paint-thinner fingers

p

paint-thinner fingers

remember when I was the size of a pea? you were a sunbeam dancing on my mother’s teeth. waiting for me to kick but feeling my heartbeat instead. I made mother swell with joy. never pride. you, I don’t remember ever holding with the right number of fingers. always slipping— in & out of a ribcage alienating the heart. we were never close but you let me fly with broken wings & wondered why I never quite came home. I think home disappeared when it stops being a single line away. I grew like redwood broken & bruised, but sweeter for it. away from the nest I was diligently thrown far from. you are not home, father. I outgrew y

boxer/s

b

boxer/s

I’m so scared of forgetting the poise / of the cigarette butt in her fingers / where she sat shotgun where I wish I had / I had sat there before and almost / almost kissed you / but the music is so transcendent tonight / it doesn’t matter who holds the cigarette / because we’re all breathing it in / dying at the same time. / city lights shifting in and out of consciousness / i wish I had kissed you that day now more than ever / in front of the bokeh of the night / just to tell you how much I would give / to be the person your affection never misses / on a dartboard / to be the one you come home to after lovers gone / the one

why do you stay (alive)?

2016, tucking the year in

t

2016, tucking the year in

In this dream, I change. I tuck astray hair behind my ear without irritation, slant over the child with a smile the world hasn't seen, look the year in the eye before it stares back. I smile so my sabr is documented - my attendance, a matter of record. I feel my Pulse with a wrist half a world away, hush Aleppo with my finger pressed to the parted lips of tear gas. I taste ash and tell myself it is not children bones. I resist the urge to pray. Send thoughts with guilt. Come up for air only to wish to have lost the ability to. In this dream, I remember the poem. The one this soil once trembled underneath. My pregnant mother's feet hur

mother's little cataclysm

m

mother's little cataclysm

i was once colored to smithereens, prior to the greenstick fracture of the sky - before the yellow gave in to the red, bruising guiltily, into night. i remember when the words birthed between approximated vocal folds, hissing when they touched along the vertical, were open wounds. i remember the ache, bittering when it reached my tongue - more salt than relief. always, less comfort than deceit. cheating into the hollow breaths between my ribs, pretense branched rootless. not once reached for the kiss of my spine, just refusing the simple rebellion of growth. its tangles reaching like aerophytes for the collar of my lungs, always fruitless

a poem on the underwhelming

a

a poem on the underwhelming

allow me to step outside your mind's autopsis - comet shower following its own end, how did you program your last remnant of humanity this way? I listen for the sound of my mind, panting, punching for a way out of the numb density of this cranial vault; do I get to admit how taciturn I have convexed? do I get to say this is taxing? this catastrophe needs a self-destruct button unless it is coded for the end, anyway. I have imagined the eye of the storm falling asleep when its winds run against the rotation of the earth - finally, I hear it say, rest without time slipping through my fingers. I don't know how long it's been since my chest

made to grow

m

made to grow

formal as the dashing of dawn on liminal expanses. drawn up breaths that keep the chest proud in the light of all these eons lost. i was once a fang embedded, i was once the anger heading with blinded eyes. the sockets settled, apneaic anchors dropped. where was i when i was lost? -- here. dormant as the flashing of storms in hunger, I was a furious five-part fester of locked passion. my jest fulfilled its purpose; my corneae bled like yesterday. I was once the rest that soon followed back from the siwaliks. I was once the guilt guiding stars back relentless home. fingers grew delicate, charges, dropped. nestled in the womb, no one ask

elsewhere

e

elsewhere

most days, I am a hair's breadth away from the air, my mind a flailing gulp of heated altercation. shame washes ashore every year, leaving no silt and taking every DNA-defense against it; most days, my legs fold and breathe like butterfly blinks, my eyes are more familiar with the ground. most days, I am more rubber than stone-- more silence than boned indifference.

gratitude

g

gratitude

in the sun's shadow, he holds your hand. he renames your choices, "b" - things hidden in nascent sight and you wonder his wonder without bend. you wonder yourself brittle, deep; you are the brontides of the rain before it decides to reveal-- do you see the sky lit with your uncertainty? do you see what he sees? he sees light, nascent, before the colors succumbed to union, before it broke the moon yellow. he sees day is more red when it has to leave-- you are the storm the sun beckons when it needs a moment to itself; I hope you see, I hope you know.

The Gum-Tree Womb

T

The Gum-Tree Womb

(for my mother) She says her gum-tree hands are not young anymore and I want to tie their barks together when she prostrates to show her, our God has just loved her longer. I want to show her how humans scarred mine because I didn't keep signs up: "BEWARE, THIS FOREST IS BREATHING." Just the sight of her warrants a search for air; her own earth-scent is charged without need for turbulence. You'll know it's her from the sound of her trees growing as loud as she is quiet. Our chorus is unmistakable pride because she swept her: unwalked floor for deceit, twigs for thorns, leaves for too much safety-- veins beaten silver in her own image. Y
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paint-thinner fingers

p

paint-thinner fingers

remember when I was the size of a pea? you were a sunbeam dancing on my mother’s teeth. waiting for me to kick but feeling my heartbeat instead. I made mother swell with joy. never pride. you, I don’t remember ever holding with the right number of fingers. always slipping— in & out of a ribcage alienating the heart. we were never close but you let me fly with broken wings & wondered why I never quite came home. I think home disappeared when it stops being a single line away. I grew like redwood broken & bruised, but sweeter for it. away from the nest I was diligently thrown far from. you are not home, father. I outgrew y

2016, tucking the year in

t

2016, tucking the year in

In this dream, I change. I tuck astray hair behind my ear without irritation, slant over the child with a smile the world hasn't seen, look the year in the eye before it stares back. I smile so my sabr is documented - my attendance, a matter of record. I feel my Pulse with a wrist half a world away, hush Aleppo with my finger pressed to the parted lips of tear gas. I taste ash and tell myself it is not children bones. I resist the urge to pray. Send thoughts with guilt. Come up for air only to wish to have lost the ability to. In this dream, I remember the poem. The one this soil once trembled underneath. My pregnant mother's feet hur

you are, you will be

y

you are, you will be

this is meant to be heard: https://soundcloud.com/c-e-moore/you-are-you-will-be-by-your-methamphetamine -- my body is beautiful wait no fuck try again with more conviction this time. my body is beautiful; its curves ascend more than the rugged Alps, they fall like contradictions from a politically incorrect statement, my body is the pavement of my mind's highway but these flyovers keep collapsing, I'm trapped under the debris of esteem (not self-esteem, that requires a mind-heart team effort) my lips have kissed all kinds of royalty; my hands have polished enough crowns and sworn fealty to the right people. my loyal legs once opened

mother's little cataclysm

m

mother's little cataclysm

i was once colored to smithereens, prior to the greenstick fracture of the sky - before the yellow gave in to the red, bruising guiltily, into night. i remember when the words birthed between approximated vocal folds, hissing when they touched along the vertical, were open wounds. i remember the ache, bittering when it reached my tongue - more salt than relief. always, less comfort than deceit. cheating into the hollow breaths between my ribs, pretense branched rootless. not once reached for the kiss of my spine, just refusing the simple rebellion of growth. its tangles reaching like aerophytes for the collar of my lungs, always fruitless

made to grow

m

made to grow

formal as the dashing of dawn on liminal expanses. drawn up breaths that keep the chest proud in the light of all these eons lost. i was once a fang embedded, i was once the anger heading with blinded eyes. the sockets settled, apneaic anchors dropped. where was i when i was lost? -- here. dormant as the flashing of storms in hunger, I was a furious five-part fester of locked passion. my jest fulfilled its purpose; my corneae bled like yesterday. I was once the rest that soon followed back from the siwaliks. I was once the guilt guiding stars back relentless home. fingers grew delicate, charges, dropped. nestled in the womb, no one ask

elsewhere

e

elsewhere

most days, I am a hair's breadth away from the air, my mind a flailing gulp of heated altercation. shame washes ashore every year, leaving no silt and taking every DNA-defense against it; most days, my legs fold and breathe like butterfly blinks, my eyes are more familiar with the ground. most days, I am more rubber than stone-- more silence than boned indifference.

The Gum-Tree Womb

T

The Gum-Tree Womb

(for my mother) She says her gum-tree hands are not young anymore and I want to tie their barks together when she prostrates to show her, our God has just loved her longer. I want to show her how humans scarred mine because I didn't keep signs up: "BEWARE, THIS FOREST IS BREATHING." Just the sight of her warrants a search for air; her own earth-scent is charged without need for turbulence. You'll know it's her from the sound of her trees growing as loud as she is quiet. Our chorus is unmistakable pride because she swept her: unwalked floor for deceit, twigs for thorns, leaves for too much safety-- veins beaten silver in her own image. Y

inhibition excision

i

inhibition excision

I love the worst of you, smacking empty bottles on barred heavens, in your lonesome stupor-- dread drains through my peptic hide every time I realize how far you stand from my comfort; I listen for your name with three fingers pressed to my supine wrist.

a poem on my unforgiveness.

a

a poem on my unforgiveness.

I have flooded basins of pages with poems, pointing to your lonely in a red only she can pull off. I cannot forgive your quiet but I know I would never have done the same, I know your words still have my aftertaste and someone who could keep me so carefully in the dim light of convenience cannot be hushed from my pulse. Trust me, I've tried. I remember you when I forget I'm happy; you forget me when you remember you are.

His Spine

H

His Spine

Your back is the coal-sheering ember of burning paper-- I remember your rings ridging your form, every knuckle snatching my last trip from the water. I cannot resurface with the tip of my nose memorizing your every rise; I cannot breathe, knowing your skin will never be familiar. I tattooed you spineless but my knees still have gashes from the nights we prayed together; I miss finding god somewhere between your hips, your lips, lithe - soft - wrapped around my flaming core.

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why do you stay (alive)?

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Artist // Student // Literature
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My Bio
buy my poetry book, HOME AND OTHER DEBRIS here.

Orooj is definitely more active on their facebook than they are here, if you want to get a hold of them. They like poetry with tea and writes too many self-addressed poem-letters in hopes of salvaging their relationship with themselves. They think they're getting there but until then, they allow themselves quiet mornings with Troye Sivan and Perfume Genius.


HOME AND OTHER DEBRIS | facebook | instagram | bandcamp| blog

Orooj also won the 2nd Annual Judith Khan Memorial Poetry Prize, was a runner up of the Pakistan Poetry Slam 2016 and won the Pakistan National Poetry Slam 2018.






Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness, Jack's Mannequin, Something Corporate, Bring Me the Horizon, Neck Deep, Front Porch Step, Four Year Strong, Issues, Earlyrise, La Dispute, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Falling Up, Witness, The Runaways, ugh so many.
gentle reminder that i am @pansydiv 's child & I've never been happier

it's been a while x 12

it's been a while x 12

hey you. it's been a long time. come sit. rest your feet. I've missed this place. its comfort. how many stretch marks these poems have symbolized. growing too much too fast with all y'all. the world outside isn't pretty. dA has probably changed so much it doesn't look anything similar to what it used to be when I was fourteen. but then again, that was eight years ago. eight. I'm 22 now, genderqueer, almost-author of three poetry books (you can buy my first book here: bit.ly/2J436Sm ), in my second last year of medical school and a comedian. yeah that happened. I'm touring with all-femme comedy troupe in my country and it's kinda wicked coo

thank @successwithhonor for me saying hi

thank @successwithhonor for me saying hi

just dropping in to say hello/I'm alive/I don't particularly want to be/but shit needs to be done/I hope you're well, in no particular order. it's been a while since I've updated this space so enjoy my little hopeful poem here: :thumb739551946: a lot has happened since the last time we spoke, friends. 1. I removed myself from a press that was outright robbing me and started my own press here in Pakistan, after my own name, which I'm only using to release a second edition of my first book, Home and Other Debris. 2. I won the 2018 National Poetry Slam and became the only woman to earn the title in the competition's three year running! tha

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Dragonlover84Hobbyist Writer
Checking in with an old friend. I haven't been here in a while, but hope you're doing well! :)
AdrolynHobbyist Digital Artist
Have a nice birthday :party: :cake: :party:  =)
YouInventedMeHobbyist Writer
Happy Birthday! :cake:
ChaosDuckyHobbyist Writer
I sense an almost impenetrable, heavy darkness in how you play with words. Like there's a distant, mythic impersonality dooming the readers
Hey lady. Always an honor and a pleasure to spend another day on this rock with you.

LYSL 
happy birthday!!! <3
AdrolynHobbyist Digital Artist
Have a nice birthday :party: :cake: :party:  =)