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.

Briefly: Sufjan Stevens album always evokes old feelings about my mother
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Promises from childhood don’t always serve our needs today
Kind words can make difference for stressed parents at Christmas
I’m trying to silence inner critic who says I ought to be perfect
Black Friday orgy of consumerism makes me very uncomfortable
Making good art is really hard; getting paid for it is even harder
When you compromise principles, you soon won’t recognize yourself
Despite promise of new tech, today’s journalism is just trivia