One Hundred and Thirty Two

I stay up late, one night, incapable of sleeping. I write and write and forget commas and periods and spacing. I write until my words make no more sense, and then I keep writing. Chasing the next word as if drawing them out of a hat, the first thought, the very first word that comes to mind, I write it down.
It is rough and undetermined and childish and ultimately a young and concerned final product but it's what I need, I think, perhaps, I might just need something of mine, something to have control over, something to direct, to shape, to push, to move, to make my way.
Things never really do go my way.