I need a teacher
to tell me that I'm great
at this writing thing
who will give me constructive criticism
and As
and gold stars or something

Or I at least need a teacher
to tell me that I'm terrible
and should revise
and demand more of myself
and hit the delete button
and do something else with my life

But now that I'm the teacher--
...how do I get better?

That is three numbers
above my echelon numeric
and happens to be my 2nd
favorite.

I never thought about why
that from a really young age
I'd fallen into romance
with a 2nd lover.

One that only sits
three buildings down the line.
We didn't meet by chance--
6am a dimly lit haze
in between our
transition from home
to not home.

It's where our bonding of
digit to digit formed
and new meaning
came to our realization
that if time was to end.

It would happen
on the 24th hour
in our 24th day
the final 24th year.

Because to imagine
existing I will always
be a youngster
a brandishing elegance of a mind.

Who understood
time was our own conception
and beyond the end
was an abyss of nothing
that I hope I'd never see.

"ctrl a then backspace"

that's all I do
whenever I wanted to talk to you

~
Whatever you say,
You do not delete the date stain on your skin
Over time it may likely to paly
Just think as the sun on the sky
But on the night when do not
Surely, somewhere else, off course in a different way
Or she has hidden behind the clouds

In the dark night,
Again she has arrested as the moon
Today, with the silky light of her,
Laughing this lake,
Bathing the distant hills,
Singing my lost heart,
Reminding the lost poetry

Her form among the many forms
How many words within the words,
The words of lost days
Her light, shines my love

The write which was only for her,
As the unfinished metaphors of poetry
Which has yet to emit moonlit
From the moonlight in a full moon night   

As if a prisoner who breaks down the wall of a dark circle
As if she has come to very near to my old door,
Light has fallen on her faded face again,
As well as the known mind of ours
Which is quite impossible to remove
Even yet that has proven the existence of eternal love
~
@Musfiq us shaleheen

When a pen's point touches paper,
The ink spreads out,
The page bends around your words,
As you mark the page forever.
With computers, every word is written,
Removed,
And rewritten.
With a tap you can delete
Your words,
Your mistakes,
Your regrets,
Everything.
But you can never take back ink.
The drop can never go back into the pen.
The paper will never again be white
Or perfectly smooth again.
You can't delete pen.

Getting rid of facebook was like getting rid of a virtual cemetery that I felt compelled to visit,
leaving flowers to dead relationships by liking a photo or poking someone who you haven’t spoken to in person for years.
Like people, some relationships are meant to have died.
Facebook doesn’t allow for those dead relationships to Rot,
the smell lingers for years in the corridors of your daily life;
its like every one you’ve ever come in to contact has been embalmed and is being stored alphabetically in your computer.

I wish I could go back in time, do it all over again,
to erase all the black spots the world has left on me;
so I could end up at this exact point looking at things differently,
with bright eyes, amazed by everything,
with the innocence of a child wondering what will happen next,
hopeful of the future and my days ahead.

I want to delete my history of you,
but my keyboard is broken,
my mouse doesn't move,
and my laptop is already dead.