A Poem Draft

I don't normally do this but I'm going to post a poem in the roughest form possible. I woke from a 3hr nap last night, sat up in bed, picked up pen and notebook, and let these words come out. I promise I'll return to it and revise or whatever is necessary and I think maybe it will be interesting to see how it changes.

Every so often a cool breeze rushes in through the sliver of my bedside window.
Not quite sure where it comes from or why it arrives here,
But it's nice.
The air shaft is not just a shaft: it's full of air, and sometimes life.
On these odd moments, it finds and kisses me.

It's not easy to write--scratch that--it's not easy to write maturely.
4, 5, 6. Six lines sit back relax and smile. It's pretty, it's an emotion--most importantly it's truth.
But it is only what it is and nothing more.
Therefore hardly public merely onanistic,
My few pretty lines.

If my words are inchoate then so too am I.
One score and seven years (no shoot actually still only six),
And it seems always only an open door to an empty room.
--To ruminate and marinate in those soft simple draughts of air beyond the door,
Filling nothing with nothing. Lear-ish recognition.

Ah but is that something?--Snobbery, likely.
Self-satisfied. Hot air.
It's getting warm now next to the window where has my breeze gone--
Out.......Drifting into another's window.
The music is personal and private--often neglected and misunderstood.

It tickled me, briefly.
But that is enough, for I am no glutton.
Pathetic, perhaps, but that's my lot.
Again, it's hard to compose for mature consumption.