Marshall Wallace
Bio
I'm a writer {because I create things}
-Ebony Stewart
Stories (4)
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Empty
Someone asked what empty feels like. More rage than anger. More snare than drum. More rain than pour. I asked myself once, thinking just because I have a shadow. I'm worth following. Worth falling over tripping under and writing raw cut images. Pasting them because to me they match my performance. I can write, but I can't throw the punches. I can't laugh because boy, that was stupid. Cut and dry. It still hurts like orange juice in a womb. But why the fuck did I do it? To feel. To heal. To repeat and start over again. Not to touch myself, but maybe if I love myself better it actually happened. I was told I live in my head too much. I already know. I cut and dried, not to laugh, but to keep from crying. You get the point we told you enough. So enough? Why am I so hard to love? Maybe because it was a game to everyone, but me. I wanna be real. Seemed honest enough. How do you do it? Keep pushing move forward around and over. Treat me like I'm not here when you need me. I need me. I'm enough in the poetry, but too poet for poetry. At least I was honest. I need normal. I'm me with out the shades. I want to be seen. Even if the sun moves out the way. most of it is just anger, not directed at anyone, but myself I'm a healer. I can say that because I've through what I feel and still tried. I touch myself to feel boy or man. Someone saw me enough to say don't touch me. I get it. I'm sometimes the giant that I spit on too. IT's not cut and dry. It's dry and erase, but still wake up tomorrow to try again. I still wake up tomorrow to try again.
By Marshall Wallace5 years ago in Poets
marshen
I'm always running from what's behind me. But there's nothing more scarier than seeing a bear and wanting to understand why we run together. I'm afraid of my reflection. I'm scared of what I see daily. I thought if I changed the shape of my body I would love it more. Removing my breasts, to form what I wanted instead of what others saw me for. A woman. A man. Who am I on the inside. I run, I write, I run and I write. I breathe and I still write. So I guess I'm still human learning to love the parts people don't see. I'm a writer because I say so and I don't care how god fearing or original that is. But a man. When I wake up. A Man when I sleep? I don't know. It's scary how close I was to breaking because I added pieces that would fit the image in my head, but nobody asked about the image. They just saw the bear before I did. They're more focused on the why, how, who, what, where... All i have to say is I'm human. When I write when I breathe, when I think, when I dream? But this body is so close to empty sometimes I wonder am I the pot or the kettle. Am I right or wrong? I feel close to a breakthrough or a breakdown. I lost my mind and find peace somewhere along the lines of fucked up. Who am I really? Well, I'm Marshall first then writing. I had these pieces when I was little and god I prayed that my foot wouldn't outgrow my mouth. I prayed these body parts were made to love. To heal. This isn't for me anymore. It's self healing. I'm a healer. I blossom with roses and thorns, but I cut them off to make room for more. I'm a healer. I talk fast to outgrow myself. I shed my skin like a snake, but I'm a worm... under all this dirt. I'm a healer. Someone said 'if love lives here let it.' I'll be damned if they take my thorns from me before I know how to use them. To trap, to avoid, to comfort, to hug too tight, to have thumbs in hopes i point in the right direction this time. I'm a healer. I write in the form of nails and teeth. I try to bite and taste everything so I heal any parts nobody touched yet. I'm. A. Healer. Sometimes, it's really scary being the bear.
By Marshall Wallace5 years ago in Poets
