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.

Why am I disappointed in others, when my secret sins lay hidden?
Let’s try a candid conversation just for the few who want to hear
Tribal hatreds around me mean detour on road to personal peace
Party of ‘limited government’ fails when given chance to shrink state
Hermit life looks good as world tries to make me a misanthrope
Material things can be replaced, but loved ones worth far more
World is a surreal alien landscape where nothing makes sense to me