Slips that are freudian

When tasked to write 1000 words on anything, I write just about anything. Stream of consciousness, or at least stream of typing? I can't even type fast enough for any of it to make sense, really, and then I surprise myself with what my fingers tap out. A few bits from this week follow:
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I write poetry now. Poetry is cool. Honestly, I'm not sure how I got started writing random poems of words strung together like they might actually mean something important. I never thought I had anything to say before, so why does it matter now? I apparently have things to say, and a captive audience that is the internet. I need more words, more words, more words to say the things I want to say. I never do write very much when I need to, and I never say the things I mean to say aloud.
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I write mostly about fandom things which are easier to express than talking about real life. No one wants to hear about real life, because they are living it too, and mine is less crappy than most.
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Random ramblings, so on and on I go, saying nothing that really matters, because nothing does matter, and I shouldn't let myself go on existential ramblings when I am working with way too few hours of sleep.
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I am quite proud of the words I flame into existence. I like fire. I think that's because I have none of my own; I want my writing to be warm and breathe burning life into me where my soul has iced over from being used so infrequently.