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Literature
saturday
her laughs are periodic,
coming and going like the beam
of light on the darkened coast.
:iconKaitForest:KaitForest
:iconkaitforest:KaitForest 12 19
Literature
war
are you singeing in
my lungs? i breathe
you in like morning dogwood
caught by flame;
the exhale will
wait its turn.
:iconKaitForest:KaitForest
:iconkaitforest:KaitForest 12 10
Literature
saccharine
he thinks i don’t like his curves, his lumps; sucking in, standing up straight, shying away. but i run my fingers across them, kiss them, unclothe them. more for me to love; more for me to devour; sweet-as-sugar boy
:iconKaitForest:KaitForest
:iconkaitforest:KaitForest 9 2
Literature
note 28
you are beauty
written over and over
:iconKaitForest:KaitForest
:iconkaitforest:KaitForest 20 12
Literature
fallsnow
i remember when it began, a snowflake trapped in eyelashes
waking up to find my feet cold and buried white
the window menacing as crystal fangs grow
it fell faster, stalking, none the wiser but me
as the supermarkets grew slippery
and offices turned to caves made of ice
even under the sun, an avalanche
gushing like a river, the frozen powder covered all
children and birds became paper puppets in play
how odd to see the snowpeople alive
i walked, just a ghost
as it fell, and fell
but nobody saw
and nobody cared
it's not that bad
just me and the snow
and the blizzard finally blinded me
only winter left in my mind
:iconphotosynthetichuman:photosynthetichuman
:iconphotosynthetichuman:photosynthetichuman 11 11
Kingdom of the Wind by iNeedChemicalX Kingdom of the Wind :iconineedchemicalx:iNeedChemicalX 1,112 94
Literature
nirvana
feigning euphoria
on the outskirts of joliet,
i saw You between red glowing streams:
weaving the horizon like a tapestry,
recycling gold beads from a pale morning sari,
dyeing blue-violet fever, shivers
leaking from my head down my arms,
resting in my belly beside You—mixing veins in the night,
embellishing the road with thoughts
of creation: You spin a thread and it unwinds,
fraying at the ends where the cars break the asphalt
and i convulse,
spinning out of control—You doe-eyed like the kid
who crashed his mother's car and dies heavy beneath
that semi, stuck in the pitch dark, oil blearing opalescent
under the gaping taillights—streetlights—headlights—
Your light,
feigning euphoria
on the outskirts of joliet.
:iconglossolalias:glossolalias
:iconglossolalias:glossolalias 30 24
The sound of Silence by iNeedChemicalX The sound of Silence :iconineedchemicalx:iNeedChemicalX 437 56 Al-Farej Allahu by anasbox Al-Farej Allahu :iconanasbox:anasbox 9 0
Literature
my body is an accident
you are a metaphor for deliberation.
all 206 bones orchestrated by your impeccable mind, telling them to flee from joints and move the way your mother wanted, the way your teachers told you not to.
your body is intentional, with lips that speak of the sea and words that make love in ocean beds. i'd swim for the casual syntax of conversation: the waters kissing the shore only to be pulled back, and return again with a tongue flicking of sinatra blue and unceasing wit.
the taste of the ache (my body already knows so well) has become so sweet. a dulcet sugar which i revisit on late friday nights, with no plans but the ones i make with memory. memory: He and i, we share fistfuls of you. we smoke you long after your name has disappeared from my headboard where you carved it when we were seven. we drink you at the bottom of champagne glasses until our lips are purple. we like to talk about that sweet taste, the one neither of us understands, but then i realize memory is not a Person and here
:iconignotism:ignotism
:iconignotism:ignotism 11 12
The sounds of silence by klapouch The sounds of silence :iconklapouch:klapouch 193 26
the reasons I keep going back to this pen, paper, typewriter. :heart:

Newest Deviations

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
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 31 12
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
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 17 9
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
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 13 20
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
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 13 6
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 12 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 15 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
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 13 4
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 14 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
Literature
re: would it be terrible of me
I never thought less of tattoos than
When we were exchanging notes on our
Missing spines.
Two times, three, four-- and now I
Scream, I've been to cities renowned for
Love. Love, looking isn't the same
As having.
Home, love, candles when not needed,
Wine, and symbols of equal
opposites.
I longed for letters written of
letters written on
what?
My chilly muscles and the abstinence of
paper when it needs that least--
When I need that least.
I whispered to comets headed
your way and became
hopelessly addicted to
the sound of the wind off
the ocean.
(We never were good at letting velvet skies be)

I think about tattoos more than I think
of your dimples of Venus
as they disappeared when you bent
and took the weakness in my knees with you.
I can see now how your hair
inks the wind on the shoreline,
how you hear nothing but its descent
and needless rise--
I know now
how hard you listened for the tear
of the moon's tendons
as it pulled
and pulled
the tide till we washed
ashore.
(I could never
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 10 4
Literature
teach me how to forget
your palms have lost their creases
from pressing recognition out
of your every worry line
and wrinkle;
I keep looking for my name in your poems.
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 9 2
Literature
here lies, a fallen tribute
take me up on chance, ask me
how far I want to watch your spine curve
till it snaps. didn't I always say
repentance is lodged in the crevices of every
process of your vertebrae?
allow me to see it, but not before you mock
the itch in my lungs to forgive on sight--
not before you screech your torn tires
on my rubble-mortar.
when you split my sternum down the middle
you saw this pump of gold for yourself
but you didn't really,
did you? you saw flesh on the brink
of selling out and giving in; you saw
me at the peak of my loyalty
to myself.
I forgive every arrogant crack between
your joints, every time you mistook gratitude
for its lack, every time I taught you the calendar
on the topography of your hand
I forgive all your misnomers and predispositions
and maybe, before the sun sets
by the skin of its teeth I will learn to forgive
my own.
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine
:iconyour-methamphetamine:your-methamphetamine 7 3


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-e Zafar's first collection is a dance through the lyric of memory. Twisting shapes of childhood with femininity, religion, and family. These poems delve into the becoming of the self. Though Ms. Zafar is only in the beginning of her career, the precise, colorful imagery makes it clear this is a writer who knows how to sculpt language. These words are powerful, heartfelt, and rooted in truth.
- Clementine von Radics, author of Mouthful of Forevers and To Teenage Girls with Wild Ambitions and Trembling Hearts.

Orooj is definitely more active on her facebook than she is here, if you want to get a hold of her. She likes poetry with tea and writes too many self-addressed poem-letters in hopes of salvaging her relationship with herself. She thinks she's getting there but until then, she allows herself 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 Where Are You Press Poet Contest 2016.





Interests

Activity


I can't remember why I update this, but lately I've been learning to take things at face value. I've been trying to identify what parts of me stay behind when my previous anchors lift their own weight. I've been trying to pinpoint what makes me so heavy. I miss Chester the same way I miss myself.

When I've tried to explain to anyone else how my fears have come out of my mouth so many times I may as well have a rosary in my hands, I am always told that I am above them and their power. And I am. I made peace with my demons a long time ago; they just haven't made their peace with me.

So this lingering dread can live out its time but there are days on never-ending lists I have stared shit in the eye and asked it to bring it. It was brought. And then it was brought the fuck down. Wherever you are, whoever you are, you have got this and I fucking believe in you.

:heart:
terrified that my book HOME AND OTHER DEBRIS is out now! it's so pretty it's making me cry. I would love to feature your reviews once you get your lil mittens on your copies.

if you'd like to review it for your blog/magazine/press, shoot me a message with your email address. I'll be happy to send you a pdf, or you can buy the book here: goo.gl/SJHB3C

happy reading! <3
18033905 1893098510911916 441556334284928089 N by your-methamphetamine



i keep opening and shutting this tab and have been for weeks but finally, hey, hi, how are you, is anyone there?

it's been an obscene amount of time since i last checked this place and read things. i miss it of course, but in the way we miss things that we know have lived their course all the way through. seeing how horrendous my devwatch looks today, i'll be going through all the visual pieces but please leave a comment with written pieces you are most proud of :heart:

in return, let's get the boring stuff out of the way. did you know i have an instagram account specifically for my writing? no? follow me there! if you don't do ig, i have a facebook page that i'm working on using more in light of my book release, Home and Other Debris coming out in two months!

2017 has been crazy. i haven't been submitting to magazines or anthologies as much. third year, though the most learning-heavy year in medical school so far, is kicking my ass. it would've been okay if i wasn't unraveling after years of repressing shit to function but hey, repressers can be choosers, i guess. this year started off with a horrible, horrible realization of the full extent of my PTSD. needed to end that sentence there.

i went to therapy and was disappointed right out. therapy in general, has been the single most exhausting thing i've ever had to do. there were days when i was beaming with the progress i had made and spent a few weeks completely addicted to neuro-hypnotic repatterning. and... i've made a lot of progress. the rage of everything that's happened to me hits me hard sometimes and i've basically given up on the notion that i can have a proper studying schedule with the way my head has been lately. but i'm also learning to accept that it's okay.

if what i was doing to survive wasn't resilience before, it sure is now. i am not heroic to myself in the least. but i do think the broken bits of me are airing themselves out in sunlight for the very first time. instead of shutting the siren under my tongue, i am learning to talk to it and ask what it's so afraid of. some days i treat myself like a child so i have no excuse to neglect myself. others, i learn to hold the child's pinky instead of fussing over them.

i can feel my mental skin stretching inside my cranial vault and it hurts so fucking much some days but that's why they call it growing pains; no part of this was meant to be easy.

don't forget to leave pieces you're proud of in the comments section and follow me on extra-dA sites :heart: until next time, loves.

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 pellets
holding their breath in the hills, a mother prays. 

 

Perhaps,
the dream can be a dream in her baby's head. 

Perhaps,
the nightmare can be called what it is. 

Perhaps, the smile stings --

 

the crying finally
stops. 

 


2016, tucking the year in
first poem of 2017. I've missed sharing my work just because. <3
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:iconangelserum:
angelserum Featured By Owner Mar 8, 2017  Student Writer
Happy birthday, friend! Hope it was a great one. :heart:
Reply
:iconadrolyn:
Adrolyn Featured By Owner Mar 8, 2017  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Have a nice birthday :party: :cake: :party:  =)
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:iconithaswhatitisnt:
ithaswhatitisnt Featured By Owner Mar 8, 2017  Hobbyist Writer
happy birthday!! :tighthug: :heart: :iconrainbowcakeplz: i hope you're having a wonderful day! :happybounce:
Reply
:iconpatchworklynx:
PatchworkLynx Featured By Owner Mar 8, 2017   Writer
Hey, happy birthday!!! You're one of my favorite poets and most admired people and I hope you have a lovely, beautiful day! Heart 
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