Inkblot

Orphaned by the last piece,
I stare at the blinking cursor,
How does one make their peace,
When they can’t follow the precursor,
~
What does one do when language fails,
To convey suppressed ideas that aren’t felt,
Should one invent words, fabricate tales,
Hide meaning in the rhyme that is dealt,
~
Is there a point to shared meaning,
When inaction is the dish of the day,
The hand that holds the pen demeaning,
What great minds really ought to say,
~
Lost in prose and poetry, they dwell,
Weighed down by words and punctuation,
Tailoring the truth to something that’d sell,
They feign their own canny dereliction,
~
Someone ought to say what isn’t said,
Disguise their truth in twisted rhyme,
Brand me a rebel, for no tear I’ll shed,
When I dare to lay it out – line by line.