D2 // Nuwanda Dalton [DONE]

nuwanda dalton.

( N A M E ) Nuwanda Dalton
( A G E ) Sixteen
( D I S T R I C T / A R E A ) Two
( G E N D E R ) Male

When you try your best, but you don't succeed
When you get what you want, but not what you need
When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep
Stuck in reverse
When you lose something you can't replace

To hope dream is to fall
To fall is to break To run is to hide
To scream is to die crack crash die
To die is to be bad
To die is the
To die is to be buried
To die is to be dead

I've been staring at this sheet of paper for the last six hours. Crosses, lines and scribbles litter the page more then there are actual readable words. The writing is messy. Seventeen years and I still can't figure out how to do it properly. It isn't like the type of person who takes care with each letter that they sculpt from the tip of a pen. I'm a person who writes because they have to, not because they want to. If I could I would never pick up a pen again, but then I would never write poetry and sometimes I'm positive that that is a good thing. I don't do it because I want to. I do it because of the rewards I believe I will get from doing it. Whatever they are.

I wasn't like the others, they loved the idea of writing poetry and standing in front if each other on a midnight as the night turned to day. They didn't care or even seem to hesitate with what ever they said. It was as if they enjoyed the very notion of screaming out the words they had blindly shoved onto the page. As though the prospect of speaking and reading out the poetry they had written was a good thing. I didn't believe that. I didn't share that same crystal view. For me each word that landed on my paper took more effort then I believed it ever would. I was a career boy a man made for the brutality of the games. I was reckless and brave and loyal to the very end.

Give me a dummy to hit and I will destroy it with such ease that there will always be a casual smile twisting the edge of my thin lips. Tell me to repeat the drill sequence of the sword and I can name all twenty in any order without any hesitation. I just can't write. Words, whatever the kind don't leap to the front of my mind the same way as it does for the others. I mean I have written some decent poetry, usually just words put here and there, but I'd say it with enough enthusiasm that the other boys would like it. I would never tell them that I am not in the club for the same reason as they are. I can't because I love them all like brothers, they mean a hell of a lot to me and lying is easier then telling them the truth.

Believe it or not, I don't want them to be disappointed in me.

I went because was a boy that wanted to feel that kind of adrenaline. Well, not the kind you get from reading poetry because you don't get a rush from reading poetry. If anything it just makes you depressed. I did it because I like breaking the rules. I'm a bad boy. One of those kind of boys that likes to get into trouble, the hot, sexy beasts that like to do all the dare devil stunts and tricks just for the attention, just for the adrenaline rush. I'm an adrenaline junky.

Most people I know tell me I look like a normal kind of career. They say that I look like them because I have the muscles, the thick iron hard arms that are filled with muscle. The kind of muscle hat can only be gained from yeas and years of hard training. By then it was the career training and the troublemaking that was the stuff I was food at. I'm not good at anything else. I suck at the classes and even bough I can come up with decent ideas I'm not smart enough to see the flaws. I only got into he poetry because it was sneaking out late at night and running away from all the training. It was what I loved to d, risking myself just for abut of fun. It was never for the poetry. Hell, I even believed that by sneaking out I would get all the ladies, you know, they'd see me as tough and rebellious, like the bad ass kind of guy they always seem to go for.

I'm not sure that my parents would approve of the poetry club. My dad wants me to take after him so much that he has even reached the point where he had me dye my brown hair to blonde, he may as well get me to change my brown eyes to blue while he is at it. I don't know why, but he has gotten to he point where he wants me to follow in his foots steps right to the very inch. He has it in his head that we are the same and I think that sometimes he is trying to live the life he never had through my life. I hate it.

I grew up straight away knowing what my parents expected of me. Mother pressures me just as much as father did, they both poked and prodded and snapped and pushed me to be better than the others. But through it all I always tried to stay modest. I didn't want to become one if those stuck up, stupid typical careers. I wanted to be the nice guy, most of all I wanted friends where no matter what happened or who they were I could protect them and they would protect me.

Three years. Three years since I started writing poetry. Three years since I found a group of friends that I would call brothers. Yet I still can't tell them that poetry makes no sense to me. That the words that slip from their lips are like a pile of confusing, scratching thorn bushes that I just can't get through. The kind of thing that makes little or no sense to me. But I will keep trying, because somewhere beneath all those strikes, crosses and lines is a poem that one day I will be proud of.