I feel very strange today. My head has been pounding all day, and my hands shaking. No, it has nothing to do with dancing last night – and everything to do with performing in a poetry slam this evening. I’m not even done my poem yet.

And I’m planning to do it off-book (which means I have to memorize it and figure out how to deliver each line, pacing, timing, gestures, et cetera). I’m sitting in my cafe right now, frantically writing a entry for here. I’ve already finished my bit for the Completists.

I have to finish up these poems, go pick up some surprises for tonight event (it’s called Unlucky in Love – fitting, considering the day and the day tomorrow). And then I have to run home, do a load of laundry, get showered, changed, and practice these poems the whole time. I would leave this entry until last minute – but I’m not sure if I’m coming back from this event tonight.

I can appreciate any poet or musician who has to learn a new song or poem really quickly. It’s a difficult task and you’re never sure if you’re going to remember it all before you get up there behind the microphone. It’s crazy and wonderful and I wouldn’t trade this feeling of crazy potential for anything in the world.

I’ve been tip-toeing around my Cee entries. I am starting to see a larger story there – and I’m wondering if I should try to make something out of it. I think that there will be at least a couple more entries about her, and then I will take her and try to work her into her own short story (like Artwork, without the violence).

I’ve been delaying my work on the Artwork story. It’s only the middle of the month – but there is still so much to do. I really want to try to get this one online and available for purchase by the end of February. It’ll be cheap, and of course…you can see the first draft / abridged version for free if you want to dig through my blog.

OK guys, thanks for bearing with me this week. I like that you like Cee. I’m sure she’ll be making more appearances very soon…but I think next week is an ideal time to start revisiting my violent roots…we’ll see it.

Though I vist here on a daily basis, I’ve come to hate the look of this site – so much, so very very much. It’s so Thesis that it makes me eyes bleed. We need to do something about this. By the way, I checked out the customizing code – that’s some fancy footwork there – very nice!

Obviously, principle failed because I apparently have none. Isn’t that awesome? I don’t do lack of rules very well – I’m the kind of person that needs that bit of push to keep going.

To be honest, your bit on salvation, inspiration, and peace kind of made me uneasy at first – I didn’t really read your words at first because I was so put off by the bit of religion that you slipped in. That’s really only the explanation I have for you. It may not be a fair one, but it’s all I have.

Before this carries on much longer – I just wanted you to know that I do agree with your idea to always strive for better, not just happier. I thinking improving yourself is the hardest thing in the world to do – especially if it’s improving the parts that you’ve never been particularly good at.

This is obviously something that I need to work on.

You know those incredible stories that have been passed down through generations? The ones that make you go, “Wow, that’s unreal!” Well, buckle up because today we’re diving headfirst into the fascinating world of Greek legends, and trust me, they’re the OG jaw-droppers.

The Trojans, the Greeks, and a Giant Wooden Horse

So, picture this: a ginormous wooden horse left outside the city gates of Troy. Seems innocent enough, right? Wrong! It was a Greek trick, and inside that horse were some elite soldiers, ready to pop out and conquer the city. Crafty, right? That’s how the Greeks rolled in the Trojan War.

Sirens: The Original Rockstars

Ever heard of the Sirens? They were like the rockstars of ancient Greece, but instead of guitars, they had killer voices that could make sailors forget everything, including steering their ships. It’s like the world’s first concert-induced traffic jam.

Pandora’s Box: The Ultimate Unboxing Fail

Imagine getting a mysterious box as a gift, and being told never to open it. What would you do? Well, Pandora couldn’t resist, and when she finally opened it, out flew all the world’s troubles. Oops! Talk about a gift gone wrong.

Hercules: The Ultimate Tough Guy

Hercules, the original muscle man, had to complete twelve super tough tasks, like slaying a nine-headed hydra and cleaning some seriously nasty stables. But hey, he made it look easy, earning his spot as the ultimate Greek hero.

Medusa: Snakes for Hair and a Stone Cold Stare

Medusa was a Gorgon with snake-hair and a killer glare. If you looked into her eyes, you’d turn into stone. Yikes! Luckily, Perseus managed to turn her into stone first, using a shiny shield as a mirror. Clever, right?

The Minotaur and the Labyrinth

The Minotaur was a half-man, half-bull monster living in a maze called the Labyrinth. And poor Athenian youngsters were sent in there as sacrifices! But Theseus, a brave hero, managed to slay the Minotaur and find his way out using a ball of string. Talk about thinking on your feet!

Wrap-Up: Greek Legends in a Nutshell

So, there you have it, my friend—a whirlwind tour of some of the most mind-blowing Greek legends. These stories have it all: adventure, monsters, gods, and a sprinkle of life lessons.

Whether you’re fascinated by ancient Greece or just looking for some epic tales to share at your next gathering, these legends are sure to impress. After all, they’ve been wowing audiences for centuries, and they’re not going anywhere anytime soon.

My heart goes out to your interweb woes. But when it really comes down to it – sometimes you have a connection, and sometimes you don’t. But don’t worry, people will think you a fantastic blogger, so long as you post at least once – daily.

This poetry thing can impress the simple of mind. Example: People will think you are clever, just as long as the last word of each line rhymes. So forget flirting with alliterations, as they allegedly alert your audience to your attempts to birth the beginning of each word with a heave-ho, especially if you constantly chant to them, “Breathe, just breathe – you’re almost through it all.”

As you already know, I often slang spoken-word as poetry’s salvation; listing the slam as the best way to bring the mentally muscled together with a passionate struggle to get the microphone to translate truth into entertainment that could compete with primetime – you could score very well in a slam, as long as you keep mixing your poetry with funny punchlines.

You could try going straight-laced with true poetry and fabulous imagery, but I’m sure that you’ll find there is a lot less excitement about metered rhymes and there’s no fun when you have to match up the syllables of each line. Poetry is cannot be defined and can be defined and there are too many differening opinions coming from too many creative minds. I tend to avoid that drama as I’m getting older and I’m starting to believe I have far less time to waste.

So let’s just say there’s no such thing as poetry, because what can’t be defined certainly can’t exist – unless you have faith. Am I rambling?

I sat next to sleeping students and girls on laptops, in a room full of couches. The sun refracted off of the pinholes and scratches on the walls. People walked towards this area with their head tilted and lips twisted to the side of their face. They choose a place on a couch and suddenly become docile; so unassuming that I felt bad even glancing in their direction.

It took about an hour before I realized that the lump on the couch across from me wasn’t another cushion, but someone curled up into a ball. My bus wasn’t due to arrive for another 20 minutes. I sat with my earphones in and no music playing. The muted sounds of the crowd boomed like a warning shot that said, “Loneliness is dangerous.” I ignored them anyways.

Last week I sat and listened to several people discuss my love life like I wasn’t being cast in the starring role. It was a strange and wonderful thing hearing these folks discuss what the main character in my poem was trying to accomplish by doing this, that, and the other thing. I wondered what I was actually thinking in those moments. Maybe I was trying to build trust when I did this, or maybe I was terrified in that moment. Did I even do that, or was it something I just made up?

Sometimes, I imagine that the story of my life is being etched on my body. It starts at the back of my neck and uses my freckles and scarred imperfections for punctuation. My earphones are blown out of their comfort zone and I’m forced to listen to the amplified crowd feedback. Every muscle in my body tenses as my fingers separate themselves.

Then silence. Pure, blissful silence for the few moments before that one brave soul opens their mouth to say…

“Hello.”

I sat in a room full of couches. The sun picked up the day gently and smacked it on the ass. Something was weaving itself together inside my veins. I may not be where I need to be, but today…I felt fucking epic. Today, the writing wasn’t on the wall, it scrawled across my chest, reading: Here I am.

Heartache happens when your body suffers from rigor mortis while feeling the effects of a post-mortem love story. It starts beating faster to warm the blood, except that it brings it to a boiling point and starts aching uncontrollably. The sudden pangs you feel when thinking of a past love has something to do with this.

Was that too surreal?

I’ve been playing with the idea of heartbreak these past few days – there is a poetry slam coming up Friday (which is the 13^th), and then Valentine’s Day right after that. Being the loveable, sweet, single guy that I am…it should be a great weekend. Writing about heartbreak isn’t something I particularly do well.

I had an entry written yesterday – when I was angry. I was so incredibly upset over something, and when I went to send an S.O.S. out to someone…I realized I had lost the right. And then I continued looking and I realized that there was no one that I really wanted to talk to about my trouble.

So I threw the bloody phone at the couch at hard I could. It bounced and nothing special happened. It was a satisfying, yet sobering experience. My hands were shaking. I needed to talk to someone, I needed to scream, I needed to vent. So I did something I rarely every do when I’m that upset.

I wrote.

I wrote for a solid hour, just listing out everything that has been building up inside of me for the last month or so. You have to understand…I don’t usually ever write something that won’t get posted. Most of all my archives on my computer have made an appearance online or in an email to someone.

I don’t waste my words.

But yesterday…I just couldn’t take it anymore. I wrote for pages, and it was an almost satisfying release. It tempered my anger and relieved some of my stress. I was still upset, still am a bit today…but it’s manageable – in fact, I’m ignoring it right now. It’s nice.

I know that it’s unhealthy to keep things bottled up inside, but I’ve been doing it for a long time. And they all eventually come out anyways. It’s only a matter of time – and the right person. I know it stupid, but I have to wonder – especially in the days leading up to the fourteenth…

Samsung has a reputation for producing some of the most impressive smartphones in the market, and the Samsung Galaxy A51 is no exception. This midrange masterpiece packs a host of features and specifications that make it a compelling choice for users looking for a powerful yet affordable smartphone. In this article, we’ll delve into the details of the Samsung Galaxy A51 and explore what makes it stand out.

One of the first things you’ll notice about the Samsung Galaxy A51 is its sleek design and premium build quality. The phone features a modern and stylish design with a glossy back panel that reflects light in a captivating manner. It’s available in a range of attractive colors, including Prism Crush Black, Prism Crush White, Prism Crush Blue, and Prism Crush Pink. The slim profile and rounded edges make it comfortable to hold and use.

The Samsung Galaxy A51 boasts a stunning 6.5-inch Super AMOLED display with a resolution of 1080 x 2400 pixels. This results in vibrant colors, deep blacks, and excellent contrast. Whether you’re watching videos, browsing the web, or playing games, the display offers an immersive experience with sharp and crisp visuals. The Infinity-O display design with a small punch-hole for the front camera enhances the overall viewing experience.

Under the hood, the Galaxy A51 is powered by the Exynos 9611 chipset, coupled with 4GB or 6GB of RAM, depending on the variant. While it may not be the most powerful processor on the market, it handles day-to-day tasks, multitasking, and casual gaming with ease. The phone’s One UI 2.0, based on Android 10, ensures a smooth and intuitive user experience. If you need samsung a51 unlock code try this unlock tool.

One of the standout features of the Samsung Galaxy A51 is its quad-camera setup. The primary camera is a 48-megapixel sensor, accompanied by a 12-megapixel ultra-wide-angle lens, a 5-megapixel macro lens, and a 5-megapixel depth sensor. This versatile camera system allows you to capture high-quality photos and videos in various scenarios. The dedicated macro lens is especially fun for close-up shots, and the ultra-wide-angle lens lets you get creative with your photography.

With a 4,000mAh battery, the Samsung Galaxy A51 offers impressive battery life. It easily lasts a full day of moderate to heavy usage, making it a reliable companion for your daily tasks. Additionally, the phone supports 15W fast charging, which helps you quickly top up the battery when needed.

The Galaxy A51 comes with 64GB or 128GB of internal storage, which should be sufficient for most users. However, if you need more space for apps, games, or media, you can expand the storage with a microSD card. This flexibility allows you to store a vast amount of content without worrying about running out of space.

She was heart-breakingly sweet.

When she spoke of music, her eyes would light up and smile secretly to herself. She was kind-hearted, in ways that I could never explain…but she just knew how to be nice. What I loved most of about her was that she had a secret dark side, hidden so well by smiles and creativity.

She would often do something differently, just because she thought it was funny. I think she did it to scream out in defiance – rejecting a lifestyle of courteous nods and weighted words. She was rebellious in the sweetest way, and I loved her for it.

We wrote notes to each other, and exchanged them over breaks. We were a teenage couple to be admired, quirky in our own special way – awkwardly holding hands and laughing because we just didn’t give a damn. (Not that we swore back then.)

I wasn’t a writer when I met her.

When I think of our relationship, I wish I was. I wish I could have details on all sweet moments and thoughts we shared, lined up in the page where I could count and savour them. I guess it is true that writers experience everything at least twice. As I write this to you, more and more details are coming back to me. She really was something…something.

Today marks my hundredth entry.

I don’t really know how to mark this occasion. I don’t really like celebrating this kind of stuff. But I do owe Kool Aid a mention. She awarded me with a Kreativ Blogger Award quite awhile ago – but I forgot to make mention of it. So, to make up for it, I want you to go over to her site and leave her a nice comment.

So here is entry #100. As one final thought, I want you to think of your favourite line or entry of mine – and leave it in the comments below.

Oh, and you guys are fantastic. I read your comments every day like they are my affirmations. So here is to another full year together.

Love you all!

It was one of those nights where the light came up from below.

We dodged the flakes as I walked her home. Everything was illuminated, especially our faces. See, we had just shared something special with each other, something that warmed our hearts almost more than love itself could.

The streetlights helped lighten the night back into twilight, and we trekked back to her house – only a few blocks over. I loved her for holding my hand; I loved her for stopping and hugging me at any moment in time.

Not a word was spoken; we just let the evening manifest.

It seems so far away now. We were young and we were each passionate in our own ways. She was the muse, inspiring boys to be more than they ever could be without her – and I was the young poet and writer. No venomous words, no awkward stares – just comfortable silence and beautiful moments that snaked their way into infinite.

We stopped at the end of her driveway and shared a kiss. I told her that I loved her, quite clumsily. And she smiled and said the same thing. We pushed our frozen lips together again and then parted away…I walked backwards down the street until her house was no longer in sight.

It was at that moment that I realized that I was following our trail of footsteps in the snow, a set of two from her house all the way to mine – temporary proof that we had shared something special on that night.

I am here, feeling alone again.

The tables and shelves are empty; the cupboards hold a few paper plates and plastic cups. Every hole in the wall will soon be filled with plaster and painted over, and then covered with boxes, masked with tape. I realized today that this house is made of cardboard – it could never be a home.

The dreams that were attached to me are shedding – and scorching the earth as they flee. I feel like there is talent that might expire soon – I wish I could be someone who knows how to move his life forward without having a crutch to stumble around with. I want to be able to make my world edible (though I would settle if it were credible).

Here I go again – feeling sorry for myself.

I feel as if this is the first time I’ve let the troubles in my mind come through my fingers accidentally. It’s never felt so good – why did I give this up? I might have been trying to be some sort of violent rock star – something I think I’m not. This isn’t about writing; this is about my life. I need to stop writing about writing, wanting, love, and bravery. I can’t just want to write a story.

I need to live a story, to love someone a story.

I can’t just want to move my life forward, I have to get off my butt and do it. Yeah, I hate to admit that I’ve written stupid bullshit to get into Alltop and be famous – to be the master of violence who violates words while smiling. I could continue to invent cute little rhymes and guest entries to perpetuate this, but I’d rather continue dancing around my life in a way that isn’t streamlined – I don’t need to try to impress these parents and famous bloggers to get attention – isn’t that is why I have my writing?

What I mean to say is that nothing can help me if I’m not helping myself. I will be taking the time to clean up my sloppy writing and find ways to cut closer to my point. I will be searching out any opportunity I can to improve my writing.

I could use a cute analogy or metaphor to further exemplify my point – but you and I know that I’m not that kind of person (though I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt to throw in a slam poetry reference).