And so I'm sitting

I'm in this hard wood chair
In this hard wood room that I've stumped mt toe on on more than one occasion.
And I can't think of a damned word to write but these now
And it irritates me
How I can only write when I get the need to
When that sensation overwhelms me
Mostly when I have no way to jot down the thoughts
Which annoys me to no end
Why does it seem like whenever I try I can't
So Imma keep kickin out thoughts till one kicks me back
Because I'm not please with myself.
Its not that there's lack of inspiration
But that I'm dullin too much to notice.
So who am I going to blame?
No one?
The fact that this is no ones fault stays in my mind
But it doesn't feel right not blaming no one for this trash
Seeping through the tip of my fingers
On this key board
In my pencil
Through my nerves that transport thoughts if they do.
In my mind
With no purpose in mind.
In thought or even in this realm
School telling me that there's a process to writing
Which I somehow ignore every time I put words to some paper or screen.
Writers keep their purpose in mind
Keep the audience in mind
Keep their word choice in mind
Keep their tone in mind
But I do none of that
So is it that I'm not a writer or someone is lying?
Is there some type of exception that I don't know about but seem to be apart of?
Maybe, but hey, since when do I like to follow people
This isn't the first and no where near the last
but just a process I guess.
And not some purpose, tone minding writer
but my own
Crazy, unbalanced and personal.