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.

Time for anger? Dissent is good, but ask what the dissenters stand for
I choose love over hate, because the author of the story’s not done
Concerns about digital future leave me mourning analog past
When did someone decide we have the legal right not to be offended?
When voters insist on lies, politicians follow their incentives and lie
Taxing ‘the rich’ more not only wouldn’t work, but it’s not fair
Lens of narcissism is only way to understand Donald Trump’s crime