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.

Forced sterilization gets to heart of arrogant progressive agenda
There’s magic in the dark solitude and quiet stillness after midnight
Latest shutdown means most papers where I worked are gone
Chance encounter with woman leaves me grateful for my health
Regardless of political beliefs, why does anyone watch Bill O’Reilly?
We’re all prisoners of a culture which demands that we conform
Honesty, wisdom and insight teach that we have to live with uncertainty
Vulnerability is scary, but failure to be open guarantees loss of love