steve carlton writing

Have you ever met a writer, who is afraid of reading? I've stated this years ago (in other words): Young people don't read enough. It is just not in fashion enough, I would say, struggling to find a better explanation. This included myself just as much as anyone else, since I barely read anything at that time. I am studying literature and I refuse to read, which makes absolutely ZERO sense to me. I go on living my life in the disregard of friendship, being misguided (because I have NO role model) and behave regretful. My search for reason has led me to believe I was a special snowflake that should just keep dreaming, while I was trying to destroy myself. I write a letter to my deceased father because I am struggling to hold on. At this point, I have dug myself into a hole so deep that I cannot see the light on top of me no more. In three years of therapy I have never cried spontaneously, but when I was asked to critize my father, I broke into tears immediately: Jackpo

But how can I get this across? Hey I think there might be A reason for you to bite me To claw and scratch And fight me But there is no way to tell you When you are not alone Consider gigantic loss If you were to know You could actually fight back When at your heart’s desire Is peace, love and harmony I wish you were not far from me When at my heart’s desire true Is the love for a fight But just with you It seems alright

“I thought this would all go down differently” I said to her and didn’t quite know what I was feeling. She gave me a slight smile and said “Come on, I need to go to bed.” This was all rushed, I had prepared for a different scenario. “Well, you take care, alright?” I hushed. “I will. See you in October.” she replied. We gave each other a short, meaningless kiss and I was on my way home. I came over to take care of her, made her a nice dinner, brought some ice cream and gave her back a good rub. All while she was feeling miserable. I just wanted to look after her and enjoy the last moments together before she went away to Africa the next week. Unfortunately, it all came different. Just two weeks after our almost break up, I felt like I got played again. I just happened to realize this maybe a third of the way home because the first third I was feeling quite sorry for myself. The last third I was quite angry actually. I ended up thinking that I should have not invited myself in to take ca