I can’t write poetry. I’ve tried to write it, but my efforts have always been terrible.
I can’t write music. I love music and I’m deeply moved by its magic — both words and lyrics — but I have no talent for writing songs.
I tried to write poetry and music when I was young. I even have a few samples of my attempts at verse. They’re awful but even through the awfulness of the bad art, I can feel the anguish of what I was trying to express when my pen wrote the words on paper.
For most of my life, I’ve felt a deep sense of longing. A sense of need. A panic. A fear. An emptiness that craved filling.
When I feel that — as I desperately do tonight — I feel an incredible urge to express it. My heart feels as though it’s going to explode in my chest. There’s so much I want to say — to express, to feel, to confess — and words aren’t ever enough.

Kitten outsmarted me for weeks, but Alex finally joined our family
In a sane world, everyone would think and act exactly the way I do
Starved for love: Portrait of a plastic person living a little plastic life
I’m weary of degenerate society where my values aren’t welcome
Surgery report: It went very well, but first time is one too many for me
Whether it makes sense or not, I’ve learned to expect miracles
I’m struggling to bridge the gap between my need and my reality
My unconscious choices on love say much about women and me