I Don'T Know What I'M Writing For

I don't know what I'm writing for, didn't start to find the cure or rewind the cord to find a vision true and pure started to express distress regarded as a mental mess a brief relief and gentle ease unheard words found release polluted air surrounding ceased clues poured spare with each piece and every layer had an underneath each more gruelling full of grief an Autumn Fall turning every leaf finding fitted Lego bricks but no design a puzzle with no box random pieces hard to slot gritty echoes from sickening times pulled from the rubble stock of my decline separate scenes on one timeline separated by my own mind people, places, a point in time, spaced through thought naive and blind, this string of knots is one combined not many which have got intertwined each scenario more crazy unlikely yet more maybe cuz answers without knowledge grew confusion ever solid, dipstick gas clouds so thick in places liquid fused and never flowing just floating never knowing expelling as I wrote, clearing horror shows, which emotionally and mentally stoked could have turned, forget and go, but in agony the ink flowed, as though my pen morphed the gas covering up my past, until at last the understanding is grasped understood and let it pass, but the years are empty, I've vented free, so i guess now i write reinventing me, and who knows maybe eventually pressing on, willing, adventurously I began because you didn't listen to me