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.

Anarchist vs. minarchist debate misses the shift to post-statist world
I’d love to move to the Caribbean, so what’s been keeping me here?
Photo assignment in dimly lit gym kickstarted my love for basketball
Don’t believe the words they say: Politicians revert to their incentives
Do political labels make things clear or just confuse everyone?
A year after first seeing doctor about cancer, how much have I learned?
‘How the Grinch Stole Christmas’
Envy drives hatred for wealthy, but I want to earn my riches
Thugs attacking private property aren’t anarchists; they’re vandals