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.

Let others be wrong if they want; it’s not your job to fix their errors
Why do tax dollars fund lavish lifestyles for bureaucrats?
If you believe in these campaign fairy tales, welcome to Fantasy Island
It’s hard to nurture what’s alive when you water dead flowers
Ten years later, it hurts to know she lost faith in me and gave up
Why did we slowly let them strip our neighborhoods of most trees?
AUDIO: Spark between two hearts can be beautiful mystery of love
Media and mass hysteria lead us into madness of celebrity worship
France’s new Socialist president wants same things Obama does