The Ramblings Of A Troubled Man Poem by Michael Wilbanks

The Ramblings of a Troubled Man
By: J Michael Wilbanks

I say that everything is okay
Those things happen for only today
And that tomorrow all starts anew
And that all I say to you is true

I lie, I have lied my whole life
I hold back the error, pain, and the strife
That screams within the false conceit
Of silence between my each heartbeat

A pain that invades, seeks, and destroys
Churns what my soul in defense employs
As my heart, mind, and soul in turmoil clash
My blood runs cold and burns down to ash

Honesty is a weapon, lying is a shield
How could I win with the weapon I yield
I’m sorry for that, but I stand on threads
I hold dear what I have, even the shreds

Perhaps honesty untold for so long
Is more powerful than it is strong
I could probably fight and turn on the light
But the world that I know would burn in my sight

My mind rings again with that city of power
The one that will burn in but a single hour
Will I cry the same as those kings on their thrones
As I lose a world so rooted in my bones

A world not seen, that much is true
What if they saw it, what would they do
Burn down to ashes and be caught in the flood
Of the stillborn wishes that course through my blood

It seems that a hope is better than a dream
But I hope that a dream becomes what it seems
I never once expected to live this long
Had I, I might have learned to be strong

You might say “Suicide is sure fire way! ”
But if you think, exactly what would that delay?
There’s an end to nothing, and nothing is free,
I knew this before I knew to agree.

If life is an ocean, and we are its waves,
Then fate is the wind, and we are its slaves.
I thought this to myself in a moment of haste,
Before I realized that fate gave me up as disgraced.

So in reference to water, excuse this please,
The wind blows troubles to other seas.
But when the wind leaves you behind,
Your left with whatever troubles you find.

I’ll trust that metaphor as far as I can throw it,
Sometimes I question that I am a poet.
Since when does a poet write poems about poems?
I’d better ask Sir Sherlock Holmes.

Well back to my agony, it was hurting a bit,
So I had to take a break, and I like where I sit.
Maybe I was running again for my shield,
I can’t believe what can’t be revealed.

Revelation is a book, but it’s something sadder too,
It’s a memory from a bedroom in a trailer with a view.
Damn the thoughts of that complaisant little sheep,
He didn’t even know that laughter could weep.

Of course that’s something I still wish I knew;
To know when to laugh, and not have clue.
Once you start laughing, it can never conclude,
But what can cause you to laugh, can be misconstrued.

I think I’ve used all the rhyming words that I know,
I could go on forever if it wasn’t so late though.
So to end in conclusion, I don’t know any other way,
I’m just going to think of something else to say.