I met a girl who puts her hair up with a pen.
But before thinking, "that's an odd thing to do,"
I lended her one of mine so I could try to see her face, now uncovered.

That beautiful face.

That beautiful girl.

Burning minds,
Brilliant minds
Different minds...

All of them writing the same old stuff,
Bowing themselves to the ancient knowledge,
Going to waste.

All of them stuck inside four walls,
25 of them:
Learning that passion and dreams are money!
Learning that power is freedom!
Thinking that peace is no war...

How fleeting their brilliance,
How wasted their genius,
How happy they are...ignorant,
How they despise madness and true humor,
How they accept the concrete walls!
How they feel one with the smoke and tar!
How they laugh at gibberish and lead
Sober, boring, small lives...
How they look at big cities
Instead of trees,
How they learn that beauty is a monstruous exuberance
Instead of passion, freedom and the simplicity of oneself
In the middle of every day circus.

They thought that wall is hard to break,
And all their might shall go to waste
As he never showed affection,
As if he never felt the pain
But deep down he knew the secrets;
That all of them had been hiding from themselves
He with his brilliant observations,
Deduced the most onerous cases
But when he met a man of pure heart
A man whom he called his partner, his right arm
He finally found his missing pieces
His life became much more than riddles and mazes
The man whom he called his best friend
Made him see the hero he was
And that's how their adventures begun
The stories of the two wisest men in London,will never end.

Who I Am
Something has tapped into me,
I went from not writing,
To can't stop and I won't stop,
I'm not sure how to take it,
Why would I complain,
Time to take my gratification,

I want other humans,
See what I see,
And I wanna see how others see,
I'm mesmerized by all of this,
I have so many quirks,
So I feel unique,

I'm just a young mind,
Who has no clue what it wants,
I want to 'wow' people,
When I die I want to be know ,
But isnt that everyone's dream..

-Paul R Hensley |||

If world's are ending,
and minds bending,
as darkness comes,
is slow descending,

Upon a people,
still contending,
as light is fading,
& fast ascending,

Doom is coming,
while some pretending,
all for naught,
and not impending,
hiding fear,
so not attending,

Wise spirits,
they are transcending,
stay quiet,
try not offending,
if you need,
will be defending,

A needing hand,
we will be lending,
a broken way,
we tried the mending,
a time for pause,
we stop the pending,
in bad choices,
time your spending,

In a world,
without the blending,
brace as troops,
no longer fending,
broken down,
no longer bending,
lies are told,
a message sending,

If EVERYTHING is really over,
when we kiss the final clover,
strike my flint,
out on the lonely cliff's of Dover
a wheated germ,
a very poison stover,
I hear that sound,
over and over,
a cracking a whip,
Australian drover,

If all the walls are crashing in,
if atmospheres are wearing thin,
if everyone is living "sin"
caught up in an endless spin,
a deep and dark recycle bin,

It's not a war,
that we can win,
take a blow,
to the chin,
tricking us,
a nasty jinn,
lacerated,
our bleeding skin,
liberated,
so wear a grin,
a voodoo doll,
just stick a pin,
yang is lost,
without the yin,

If we cannot just begin,
If only we,
were all akin,

I'm gonna live the last long hour,
the last long minute & give it power,
I raise a hand & never cower,
shout it out from the tallest tower,
taste the sweet and then the sour,

The last fraction of a second,
like I always shoulda,
I don't wanna say I woulda, coulda,
do what you must,

If there are no more tomorrows,
live like there are none,
as no more days with to drown your sorrows,
or any time at all to borrow,

Just tamper sad & past regrets,
to clean from life the sins & sweat,
to swim inside the glistening wet,
live your life,
& do not forget,
to play your chip and place a bet,
if its as good as it can get,
release the need be free to let,
let it go and do not forget,

Live your life,
be ever present,
in the gift,
take a little global turn,
a conscious shift,
a way to learn,
no way to fix
a faulty rift,
winds of change,
are in the drift,
seeking hands,
in ashes sift,
justice served,
& coming swift,

Blink before it's all gone,
a moth to flame,
is truly drawn,
not naïve,
a baby faun,
darkness comes,
before the dawn,
angry angels,
showing brawn,
saving hearts,
we've laid & sawn,
down the beast,
a stupid pawn,
weary ones,
just can't go on,
religious way,
another con,

Live your life in here in the now,
love your life,
get it out some how,
then whipe away a sweaty brow,
& take again a blessed vow,
do it all,
what they allow,

So go,
go ahead,
and live your life,

Poetically.

All these years I thought this was a sort of coping mechanism, a sort of way to stop myself from peeling my skin off to try to scream at it to listen. A way to keep me contained.

My words knew better than I.

When I couldn't keep my thoughts straight, my lyrical ramblings were putting away chronicles that would eventually be a bread trail to understand the world inside my head. To understand the little girl locked behind bars and being told she is a Jabberwocky. My little, trapped, fearful, left behind, bipolar girl.

Things seem so much clearer now. I haven't felt so unclouded and intelligent in years, but suddenly the paths in front of me seem so much easier than they used to be. The poisonous fog over my life has lifted and I can see the monster I was stabbing at was truly just me.

I just couldn't see that then.

I have my writing to thank for everything. I have to thank it for everything. It is the one entity in my life that has been constant and loving and keeping me human. Alive, even.

It is the music of my soul, and it amazes me every day how deeply I love it, and it loves me. I wrote an entire piece two years ago about my love for writing and how it has always stayed by me, uncertain of its love for me. Writing loves so many people, and I am just a grain of sand in writing's life. But lately I've been feeling that even a grain of sand can matter so much. I mean, Dickens and King and Miller and Lee were only grains of sand and look how much they did?

It feels stupid and forced of me to get all motivational speech here after the chronicled years of confused sufferings and endless, unsure ramblings. I'm not going to sit here and talk about how I see the light and I know the way suddenly, and my life is fixed.

My life will never be fixed. But in an imperfect world, where  nothing every truly is fixed, it seems the wading through the waters is pleasant when you do what works best for you.

What I will say, though, is that my life is finally, after years of uncertainty, one hundred percent my life, just as it should be.

I'm bipolar, it'll always make my life interesting and different than everyone else's. But if I can try to keep my life overall happy and have writing in it and feel strong and loved and brilliant, and I think for once I'll be fine.

Funny that I think this is the first time I promised that in a poem and truly believed it. Not just the moment, not just next week.

I think from now on, I can be fine.

My God is living color
a translucent Fire
the traces of Your fingers drip like Gold
Your face blood Ruby red
split with veins of Garnet orange
Carnelian swirls ascending from Your feet