Not sure if you're hungry, but
here's every word you just said

I will spoon-feed you each profanity as you lay in your bed

Let them set your bloodstream ablaze and go straight to your head

You can eat my words too because I'm overfed

When a soldier marches, where does his focus go?
Forward? To glory or doom?
His mind filled with stories of honour and pride of wars long ago?

Backward? Of the life, they left behind?
To the wife, the child back home?
The medals to be shown as trinkets or to speak never more?

Have they ever stopped to look around? Of the country, to be or not to be? The mountains, the rivers, the towns and to the sea.
The damage to be caused? The life preserved?

Regardless, the solider marches

Banging my head against a wall twenty times
never once made a good thought come to mind
Sometimes I gotta dig into my pockets
to pull out lint I turn into rockets
Once in awhile I blow up a hit song
But most of the time it's an absolute bomb

You don’t know what’s next, and that’s alright
You never really understood the idea of success
It is, in its nature, a self-defined word

You always thought you had to prove your worth
Why?
You felt the need to change something, and become noticed.
You wanted to be known.

I can only offer what I know so far.
You have to learn to validate yourself
Otherwise you will live your whole life trying to please other people.

I know that twisted wrist behind your back, I know that fake plastered smile,
I know the gritted teeth and the tired eyes.

Walk away.

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The blank page... I heard writers experience this often, but not me. Either I am not a novelist, or I'm the best one ever. How can you not find something to write on a white piece of paper, I mean a white computer screen. Maybe it's because I am penning about anything that comes to my mind, no structure, no narrative, no lesson... nothing to trigger the ego or the pride. Just pure random, meaningless writing. That's my therapy.