Figuring it out

I stare at this empty page;
Not one single thought of rage. 
Flowing lines consume this processed wood;
Trying to write down everything that I could. 

I hate it when I have to think;
Staring at the mirror; hands placed on the sink. 
Just wondering why I feel so empty inside;
Why do I recluse when there is so much world outside?

Still filling this page with inkish blood  from of a pen;
To ease my pain; it what I try to pretend. 
He mixes truth with lies;
Like stars in daylight in our skies. 

I must follow what is there to see;
So much more than you and me. 
As this writing still goes on;
Why can't I figure out what is wrong?

Not putting down what I want to say;
Just excuse this blindness if you may. 
It's a bitch when you have writers block;
Your head is dumb as a rock. 

So I write to see what I feel;
Nothing seems right: theirs nothing real. 
Lines that have no rhyme or reason;
I wonder if it is because of this season?

Not to be able to write what is inside my head;
Words written and words that spread.
I now know why as I depart;
This is what happens when you don't write from your heart.