sighsandcigarettes

ig– @sighsandcigarettes

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  • sighsandcigarettes 140w

    the world is a broken place

    The world is a broken place
    that smokes away
    day by day
    like a cigarette
    smouldering down
    to bitter ashes.
    ~
    Tired eyes
    and insomniac minds
    in a dark
    beady storm
    dropping down
    like acid.
    Melting.
    ~
    Sometimes these days
    I sneak out
    and kill myself a little.
    And a little more.
    And just a little more.

    -Akash (20/10/19)
    ©_wordie_worlds

  • sighsandcigarettes 144w

    day n night

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    Petrichor

    Petrichor:
    the soil after rain,
    smells pleasant no more.
    Just a spread of ugly mud
    over a vast plain, of hungry quicksand.
    Starving earth,
    thirsty for My flesh.
    The tree of hope
    (me sitting silent somewhere over one of it's branches)
    tries to stand fierce
    with it's roots deep in the quicksand.
    But it sways. It sways nasty.
    And I watch;
    as the quicksand rises higer
    and the tree sinks down and down.
    What I can do; is nothing.
    But wait for the day,
    when the tree will sink
    and everything
    would be zero.

    –Akash (26/05/19)
    ©sighsandciggrettes

  • sighsandcigarettes 158w

    Father's day? Hah yeah, yeah right.

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    Stranger Father

    Every day, every evening,
    a stranger walks into my house.
    He stays in for the evening,
    he stays in for the night,
    then he goes away to the office again
    in the mornings.
    Its peculiar because
    seldom as i try to address this man,
    those times i do, i call him
    'Papa.'
    Although i am his true blood,
    i feel i fail very bad
    to understanding the rythms of this heart
    or the power of his vision.
    I don't know who he is.

    Somwdays he laughs, he jokes and makes us smile
    like any other father would.
    But on other days
    he has a hatred in his eyes
    i've never quite understood.
    It seems he hates me
    just because he can.
    Maybe it is He, who never understood
    what being a father meant.

    Would you rather live with a man
    with no love and lots of food
    or with a man with lots of food
    and no love?
    It seems i never had a choice.

    For long and long i cry
    onto the shoulders of my mother.
    Sobbing, swearing, shivering.
    Not failing here,
    to notices the faint forrows
    forming on her once young face.
    At times she cries with me;
    and at times she only brushes soft my hair.
    at times i fall asleep crying on her lap,
    and at times i lay awake for long
    seeking the reason for the hate
    i never fail
    To get from the stranger
    i am bound to, as my father.
    ~Akash
    ©_wordie_worlds

  • sighsandcigarettes 158w

    Well Bottom

    If im sitting around a well,
    my luck is down at its bottom.
    Probably shivering there, a silver thing,
    in between the black slimes,
    that never saw any light.
    Its funny
    because every time i read it
    it is different.
    Though it remains exact,
    down to every punctuation mark,
    (every mark, a rusty dagger,
    that never hesitates before a stab.)
    but so different, just the same.
    But not different enough
    to let me find my smile.
    Not close.

    They say I'm still as i was
    all those years,
    that somehow just speaks
    how well they knew me.
    How. Bloody. Well.
    And it is not very long,
    before i breathe in deep, close my eyes
    and jump down,
    into the dark, of the cold waters.
    A blind wanderer.
    And somewhere deep down there,
    in rigid tangles and tentacles
    I'd find my silver and i'd smile.

    But before i do.
    Before i jump,
    into the black, narrow, that one deepest furrow of cold waters of the well,
    Tell them how much i had changed.
    Tell them they didn't know me enough.
    Tell them they were too ignorant
    to notice me change(d).
    ~Akash (21/05/19)
    ©_wordie_worlds

  • sighsandcigarettes 159w

    Sat up.
    Blinked thrice,
    and stared into the air.


    Sat up.
    Blinked thrice,
    and stared into the air.
    3:27 am.
    My eyes exhausted,
    though sleepless as a day.
    I hadn't had a nightmare;
    oh no
    (guess life is enough for that part)
    But there was a storm
    in my mind.
    A haunting note of music,
    round and round and round.
    A rewind
    of the passed day
    and the days before
    and before
    and before.
    It spun, at a dreadful pace
    and I remember feeling dizzy
    maybe nauseated too.
    Sudden people crying,
    sudden people laughing.
    As if They'd been lurking behind the veil of the light
    all along.
    Who?
    Some I knew, some I had
    in the long gone past.
    Each one of them, jumped out,
    like sudden bright flashes of light
    in the dark
    and their afterimages
    prevailed longer than the reign of darkness itself.
    The echoes of the music,
    haunted.
    then reverberated
    then haunted my closest home again
    for a long long time.
    I laid down, and stared into the ceiling, where the darkness
    hadn't yet decided to leave either.
    It was my mate, who stared into me and I'll never know how much it found out.
    The ceiling is a being
    of no words.
    The afterimages haunted longer.
    And I waited for a alarm to ring
    to get ready
    for school.
    —Akash (19/5/19)
    ©_wordie_worlds

  • sighsandcigarettes 163w

    Understanding

    Understanding-

    Understanding
    is a selfish, evil,
    son of a bitch,
    that has its degree
    in Tease.
    That can give you
    just an illusion of
    that hope, that belief, that smile
    then fade away.
    Snap.
    Just like that,
    into the depths of the minds.
    Something that often
    marks the beginning
    but ends it too.
    Snap.
    Just like that.

    Understanding
    is a selfish, evil,
    son of a bitch,
    that likes you crying
    that likes you angry
    that likes you depressed.
    But once over the anger
    there is an ocean
    of deep calm.
    And somehow
    the evilness of understanding
    doesn't yet know
    that extreme calm
    is often
    not a good sign.

    -Akash (9/5/19)
    ©_wordie_worlds

  • sighsandcigarettes 163w

    el oe el

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    Humorous

    Humorous-

    Yes, I might laugh a lot
    but it does not mean
    that I'm not a deep being.
    Hard as it may now seem
    this big pill to swallow,
    the hell I Am humorous
    But I am Not hollow.
    when you'd take a sneak peek
    into this hell of a well
    you'd find a drop of laugh
    and a sea of sorrow,
    two of smiling today
    and a big big river
    of fearful tomorrow.

    And when I laugh and laugh
    and sure make you do too,
    I feel a hope of light
    that, as it seems, just might
    clear my sorrowful sight
    and give me some time bright
    and make me believe,
    that it really is; alright.

    Just all, alright to be deep
    and all so, to be funny
    I laugh because I like to
    I'm not a fucking dummy.

    -Akash (2/05/19)
    ©_wordie_worlds

  • sighsandcigarettes 165w

    I am a guy;
    And I'm writing for the women.
    #rapeculture

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    I Don't Sympathise

    I Don't Sympathise–

    Rude as it may sound to some; I don't sympathise for the rape victims.
    Sympathy is not something to put forward when you hear about girls being raped, burnt and hung on a tree to die. About girls being raped in a Temple; then stomped with a rock to death.
    Girls who would've had a life of love and laughs otherwise.
    Sympathise is not what you do, when you realise that the law and order is apparently too busy fighting over where a Mandir is to be built.
    (If only they'd realise that Ram would be happier to see the women safe, than to see his worship place built.)
    No; you don't sympathise.
    You're fucking angry.
    And you're fucking scared.
    Sympathising and getting over, is for something that has an end: mere death?
    Rape, as it seems, doesn't have one. And us being together in this all, your sympathising doesn't make a shit of a difference.
    Anger however; can rage through.
    ~
    Hear your mother, your sister, screaming in agony. Hear them Screaming for help. Her voice pleading and high in tears. Shrill and suffering through your mind. Screaming, pain and— Laughter. Oh yes, laughter.
    The monsters laugh, has her clothes get torn. The monsters laugh, and she screams, as each one of them do her.
    There is blood. A lot of it.
    And there is pleasure.
    Would you sympathise?

    I certainly have a sister. No matter how many times I pluck at her pony, it is fury beyond measure that rages through me if someone as much as pokes her a fingure.
    And then I hear about Them.
    About The Women of my country.
    My Women.
    And I'm angry. I'm scared.

    "India is my country, and all Indians are my brothers and Sisters,"
    Turns out to be a statement that should've mattered a hell lot more, than it actually did.

    I am a guy;
    And I'm plenty scared.

    -Akash (21/04/19)
    ©_wordie_worlds

  • sighsandcigarettes 166w

    One of my favourites!

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    Me And The Sparrow

    Me And The Sparrow–

    I so was wide awake
    before the day opened its eye
    sitting out in the balcony
    watching the vast old sky.
    The night's peaceful silence
    seldom-seldom a car'd pass by
    and I'd hear it's loud roaring
    screaming too loud, and high.

    The sky was half dark
    and the wind across, blew all cold
    and the old cushions of my chair
    had so long, kept my hold,
    when out comes a sparrow
    out of these sheets' secret folds
    she flies and sits on my shoulder
    lone, tired and untold.

    Though the sparrow was light,
    but she had a heavy, dark weight
    like the one that keeps you open
    at hours of silent late.
    Together we sat quiet
    somehow neither us, quite awake
    we shared this mutual sympathy
    and with no words; an ache.

    The dawn, followed the night,
    we both noticed, as came, the day
    she chirped– we looked in the eyes,
    then she flew away.

    -Akash (14/4/19)
    ©_wordie_worlds

  • sighsandcigarettes 167w

    Fun to try long rhyme schemes!

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    The Ladybug

    The Ladybug–

    Hardly few knew
    the ladybug,
    who flew askew
    I'm the scortching sun.
    A small thing,
    with opened wings
    and other delicate seams
    it seems, that she was
    lost in her day dreams
    when she struck the window.
    And, oh well, there she fell
    with a silent yell, where–
    down the well, the huge hill
    of the open air.
    An eight year old
    who did not care
    came walking down
    from somewhere
    near
    And curve of a dear leer
    on her bitty face
    was pretty clear,
    then she crushed the wriggling bug
    to a dirty, gory smear.

    -Akash
    (13/04/19)
    ©_wordie_worlds