this has a point

At what point can I point to myself, my words and say this has a point?
Acute or obtuse, my words fall out loose and fly about like Dr. Suess’s mind
I could find a reason to write, type or speak,
but the reason would follow the words
Conclusion than reason? Absurd
I’ve never heard of anything less logical
A pathological person could excuse it or abuse it
But when a reasoning rhetoric lover can’t seem to discover
neither rhetoric nor reasoning
Then this poem will lack seasoning
Seem plain and unsavory, unworthy of seconds
But minutes pass, and I reckon we’ll stay to count
the ticks on the clock until we mount an attack on the conscious mind.
I reuse the same rhymes and never find the theme adequately addressed
But with meaningful explorations, it’s at worst second best
I undressed the salad and ignored my dessert
Undressed a wound and poured out my hurt
Like a noble gas, too long inert, I lost my ability to react
Panic attacked and I opened my hands for help
Let out a yelp when someone stepped on my tail
Cried like a baby, I started to wail
But only in the privacy of the four walls of my mind
I put on the open sign
And in the dinner a cast of characters began to play
Poets spoke for the beauty of words
and worlds they’d never seen but often felt