While Lightning A Cigarette

While lighting a cigarette you describe, 

The 70 mm long can take away your life, 

Still you endanger it to feel the smoke passing by.

Starts with a spark it grows into fire,

Makes your lungs the victim of your desire,

Still you speak it's a matter of time I'll quit you liar.

The minutes of your smoking steadily turning into hours, 

Addiction of this is slowly gaining power, 

Still you thinking your heart is safe hiding in a bower.

With time you realize you falling a prey of trap, 

The effects of which you earlier described as crap,

Now you trying to protect your brain from its wrap.

The procedure is no astronomy,

The symptoms you let pass, as they we were monotony, 

Now you can smell the ashes of your anatomy.

The actions you took were neither louder nor pure, 

Healing of the burnt is not sure, 

Now you regretting not opting prevention instead having faith in cure.

Still you believe there's a hope,

The chances are mere just like knotting the cutting rope, 

But at least now you sure quitting was the best way to cope.

Two Different Stories

From the window they were watching,
A pair boys with their backs loaded with bags,
Except the fact that their bags were rags.
Following them was another pair of boys,
With their backs carrying load too, as they look
But the load this time was of books.

With the breaking of dawn begin two different stories,
And they are really different from the tales of kings, queens and glories.
One with smiles and other with garbage piles,
One with books and other with starvy looks.

Still they think what this difference brings into their lives?

The destination is not same, nor may be their aim,
But they cant blame, their life or their name.
It may be winter, summer or rain,
But the dress covering their body can never remain the same.

The difference is not their god or their games,
But the thoughts their brain tames.
Their foot may be naked or covered,
But their childhood cannot be recovered.

The reasons behind their smiles,
And the distance covered in miles,
Cannot be same for lifetime,
As their struggle for living becomes prime.

The difference is not skeptical,
When visioned through two frames of spectacles.

Makes me wonder why they are still watching from the same window frame,
when their stories are the two ends of a river far from being same.

Prostitute Tale

With her two children and her body,
She flee from her nest
With vengeance of her pains,
And free from the chains,
She arrive at her freedom.
The stories and tales,
Of all her males are bygone
And that satisfaction,
When she get the right of her emotions are present from now.
The death of her fears,
As she come near to dreams of her own,
The birth of her smile,
As she cry from heart she disowns.
And that beautiful day,
When she embrace the children from her womb
To infinite ugly nights,
When she wore the mask of passion.
But the destiny is fixed,
And she cannot mix the tales of her own
The world runs on money,
Which she struck with when she felt the void in her belly.
The children are weak,
As they seek for food to eat
Her anxiety is now strong,
As she saw their shadow along.
With agony in her heart,
She accepted her fate
The joy for few days,
Are obviating from her memories.
Neither from past,
Nor from present,
But from all men,
comes the Prostitute tale.