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Literature
growing out the pain.
your fingers read like brail the tallies sunk too deep in my skin
like a map you read my scars.
you translate the manifestation of my pain
and whisper it'll be alright.
and i'm blind, in need of a cure you cannot give
broken, in a manner you cannot fix.
(because maybe you are too).
i'm the expiration date,
set to implode.
the clockwork,
winding to a stop.
a nuclear leak,
spreading radiation.
i'm the fixer-up thats not worth the money.
(can't you see?)
but that night we spent on your living room couch,
your fingers wrapped tight around mine
holding them captive from tearing out my hair.
letting you in is hard for me,
please understand.
your arms made me feel safe,
even when it scared me. 
even when it was hard not to feel his arms instead.
you were the first one i trusted with my blades,
and even though i can feel the panic rising in my bones, and my fingers regret it,
my heart doesn't.
is this how you choose recovery?
its been 7 months and i'm still learning to let go.
still learn
:iconarabesque-o:arabesque-o
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Literature
i wonder...
where did that come from?
that feeling
it just popped up
like a bubble
escaping from under a rock ledge
to reach the surface of the water
and burst
into me
:iconmeghan-solo:meghan-solo
:iconmeghan-solo:meghan-solo 8 6
Tennis Invasion v.3 by bwaworga Tennis Invasion v.3 :iconbwaworga:bwaworga 125 7
Literature
07. snippets
1.
lions are resilient; their bones not easily limbered.
but last summer, you picked one by its mane and
weaved the fiery strands into your grip.
you threw him on the cold gravel of repentance
and he shattered into millions of what he once was.
2.
my back is very rigid.
i am stiff as your late grandfather's church collar,
as your pledge of allegiance voice.
i am bent and crooked, curled into a single spinal cord of distortion.
3.
you fell into my lap like a pomegranate from
the tree of possibilities. i peeled your thick layers
away, your juice - war paint for my sore hands.
i picked each individual seed
from your dismembered core
and named them:
compassionate, selfless, honest, warm
4.
is it true that train rides make you feel anything but content?
:iconlearningtobefree:learningtobefree
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The Kingdom Fall by A2Matos The Kingdom Fall :icona2matos:A2Matos 311 39
Literature
the verbal kabal
there are no clear path(o)s through this forest of rhetoric
only gnarled cluster of roots half-
tied as our tongues
and if we ever lose sight of strange
peripheral shadows
they'll unhinge their slow jaws and politely
devour us whole
:iconthesquareroot:thesquareroot
:iconthesquareroot:thesquareroot 2 0
La Magie d'Ayguebonne by FlorentCourty La Magie d'Ayguebonne :iconflorentcourty:FlorentCourty 1,484 258 Pegasus by synconi Pegasus :iconsynconi:synconi 459 61 lovestruck by vampire-zombie lovestruck :iconvampire-zombie:vampire-zombie 756 26 FR by O-Sammer FR :icono-sammer:O-Sammer 73 10 Dina by Zhivago86 Dina :iconzhivago86:Zhivago86 350 9 Dancing in the Moonlight by pinkparis1233 Dancing in the Moonlight :iconpinkparis1233:pinkparis1233 68 3 Take me to the mountains by Anina-Bird Take me to the mountains :iconanina-bird:Anina-Bird 30 5 In time by MilanNikolaPetrovic In time :iconmilannikolapetrovic:MilanNikolaPetrovic 59 24 Yellow in the middle of blue by CocoaDesert Yellow in the middle of blue :iconcocoadesert:CocoaDesert 85 4
the reasons I keep going back to this pen, paper, typewriter. :heart:

Newest Deviations

Literature
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 you before I had the chance
to grow accustomed to your warmth.
you are the trains here— never on time,
bringing only the stale scent of disappointment.
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
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Literature
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 you lean in to kiss before they you / I wonder how much it would take of me to say / I want to be your secret place / where you first went to get a loaded cigarette / sat on a tiled floor with the exhaust fan on / I wish I was there to tell you you look so beautiful / when you wish you were high / you look so beautiful / when you’re almost t
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
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Mature content
why do you stay (alive)? :iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 10 6
Literature
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 hurt with my added weight;
she always knew this world was not one for a heart
like mine; she didn't hear my heartbeat until I was breach
at birth. Somewhere in Kashmir, the valleys shake under
a new mother's footsteps. The Himalayas tremble
with a baby's fear. Somewhere between my smile and the pell
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
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Literature
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. when it left, there was air --
perhaps still digging in search of sunlight in the floor
of my mouth, but there was air.
it baited for my chest to take note, battle the pressure
and weigh the odds. check if it would be objectively secure to live
from here on out. i was once a cradled mess in my mother's
knapsack arms and some days, i am a fetal return
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
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Literature
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
did not tighten at the thought of losing time; when was I
so unaware of my shortcomings? fatal flaw,
hello,
I did not foresee
this preempted consuming.
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
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Literature
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 asks where to go
from here.
--
reform and crash
in new accelerations with mettle
twisted, twined, and
blossoming. nurture seeds
of arching into new fogs.
you are long standing
with the sunset, and my
fingers tremble at
the echo of your shadow.
once i strummed the sixth
string and was dire to reap
the reverb. once i lumber
out of my own stupor
i might properl
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
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Literature
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.
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 12 4
Literature
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.
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 11 3
Literature
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.
You cannot pinpoint her oroboros;
her reflection is three shoots
aiming through a canopy of green
for so much more than just the moon.
She doesn't ask us to look for God
anywhere outside the radius of home;
the gum tree is a gnarled temple
we happened to
every leap year after the end.
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 16 11
Literature
looking back, unaccepting
i. When I say I was all in, I imagined it a congenital accident--
tearing limb from my own limb to accept a disembodied lonely
across the tightrope of the universe.
I still hear your voice when I cannot sleep.
ii. I don’t remember when I wanted love to hurt at my mention;
all there is: my missing burned hotter than theirs,
my crushed felt too close to sand when theirs looked like shards at best,
my lonely was doused in acid made, truly, in Pakistan.
I stopped waiting for the pendulum to swing.
iii. When did forgiveness let your lungs breathe easier?
iv. I miss you for loving me despite everything, even
your own child.
v. I wish it was me, the one with whom it just
“worked,” where it was fluid like the siren-home I could never find.
I miss you in the way your collarbones dipped like a big blue
letting go of the land.
vi. I wish it had been me, just as I wish
It had been you.
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
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Literature
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.
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 12 4
Literature
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.
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 31 3
Literature
Toxic
When his fingers comb through the forest
of my hair, he means, "What scared you
to be so quiet? I hear every tree fall."
He points at each breadth of my scalp,
"I am around to listen."
How do I tell him, my bark is ever-
echoing thunder transcending its own monsoon?
It relishes its discordance,
collecting over earfuls of corpses, the jolt
so much more biting
than the impact.
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 13 3
Literature
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.
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 16 16
Literature
?
despite the middle school teacher
coursing through my mother's body,
I have become an overwriter.
I remember how her back looked,
arched over me like protection from bad handwriting. I learned to hold a pencil her way,
my eyes were supposed to be half
a foot away from the page
just so my back would never need to.
my rebellion started with the i's, no longer
were they dotted an eyelash away from the body--
they were rounded like water for lost
men in the desert.
and when I learned to conjugate,
the i's stopped existing. they became funnels of deceit -- an afterthought
of a tree trunk I was too distracted by the leaves
to draw-- feeling my mother's eyes
bore into my temples, "how can you overwrite an i?
how can you forget yourself?"
I don't know when I lost letters between
joining them. it was supposed to be shorthand
never the short end of the stick;
I promise I'll find the patience
to dot them like they deserve
and write their civil, umbrella-curve
without
arching.
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 7 13


my beautiful literature tag is made by the superb, lithium-cocoon :heart:


deviantID

your-methamphetamine
Orooj
Artist | Student | Literature
Pakistan
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.





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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 you before I had the chance
to grow accustomed to your warmth.
you are the trains here— never on time,
bringing only the stale scent of disappointment.
gentle reminder that i am pansydiv 's child & I've never been happier
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 you lean in to kiss before they you / I wonder how much it would take of me to say / I want to be your secret place / where you first went to get a loaded cigarette / sat on a tiled floor with the exhaust fan on / I wish I was there to tell you you look so beautiful / when you wish you were high / you look so beautiful / when you’re almost there / when you miss your therapist’s appointment because mirrors suddenly / become so expensive when you need a hard / look at yourself. I know the stories / I know the looks you get and I want nothing more / than to swallow you whole the minute / your lips part— a cigarette to keep them company / while I rest my own, remembering the haste I held back to taste you.
boxer/s
I'm a little bit lesbian when I'm a little bit tipsy.
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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 cool, haha. been dabbling in musical comedy and you know, I'm actually kind of good. 

I keep coming back in hopes of salvaging some parts of me that wrote like I used to. but I'll just write from what's bursting through my ribcage instead. this place will always be home. it will always be where I spilled the absolute end of my heart out. the friends I made here are people I hope to meet someday. 

I hope you're taking good care of your heart. good care of you. you deserve it. <3
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:

Mature Content



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! that was pretty cool.

3. I finished writing my second book, tentatively titled, heart the size of a loosening fist with a press that makes me feel like a Real Person and Artist who Deserves Respect.

4. my petri dish of mental illnesses is a roller-coaster ride I am not enjoying in the least so I delude myself into staying in the moment and focusing at each task at hand. it's been working.

5. this glowing review of my book keeps me alive.

how have you been doing, friends? what keeps you here?

sending love from my too-big heart to you all, always. :heart:

- O

Comments


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:iconadeadgod:
aDeadGod Featured By Owner Sep 15, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
I sense an almost impenetrable, heavy darkness in how you play with words. Like there's a distant, mythic impersonality dooming the readers
Reply
:iconroylapost:
roylapost Featured By Owner May 2, 2018
Hey lady. Always an honor and a pleasure to spend another day on this rock with you.

LYSL 
Reply
:iconpatchworklynx:
PatchworkLynx Featured By Owner Mar 8, 2018   Writer
happy birthday!!! <3
Reply
:iconadrolyn:
Adrolyn Featured By Owner Mar 8, 2018  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Have a nice birthday :party: :cake: :party:  =)
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