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.

Yes, Trump is scary and crazy, but fear the immoral system, not him
What kind of sick society names Obama, Clinton its most admired?
Finding your own authentic voice is riskier than copying everybody else
Tribal hatreds around me mean detour on road to personal peace
Anonymous attacker hit me hard, but I can’t let coward change me
Do political labels make things clear or just confuse everyone?
Man’s unconscious night after stroke leaves me uneasy about living alone
Replacing Obama with a Republican president won’t change anything