Need to be serious about writing: a poem

It is no fun when you don't know the direction,
not just of your poem but your whole vision,
so you stumble and fall, confused and dazed
unsure where to go next, where to look straight
write, write, write, so is the instruction,
but never once said or explained precisely
is 'what', and 'to what end', just always blithely,
and I wonder where I'm headed and if it's worth it,
the discipline is nice, thank you very much
but I can make myself sit on the chair for thirty minutes
the point should be to have an output worth sharing
and tell the world what has been learned over the years
where are the lessons I have taken, oh and
what do we say about how we've grown
through the years?

My fingers will keep writing, on and on,
and my brain will try to escape, not very well,
one day surely we'll get a clear understanding
of where this 'art project' will be going.
Well until then madams and sirs, allow me to indulge
in the most bizzarre instruction set
for a city to run it's millyet ring
to tell everybody when the time will be safe
and to safely hide in their houses in the times rest,
it's important because the other side
had discovered the abandoned prince
but had failed to start up a good fight.
There was tension, or so much, but what a pity
the card won't come through.

So now father and sun, sharing the prison weapon
dream of better days, with the trees and the bees,
To go out in the park and dance in joy
but will there be enough response, or is the current situation,
produce less but still be zero-indexed late.