Several things embark along and form the delicate grounds of my four walls, four walls that have 

extended the palms of my hands and my escalating mind. Crowded notes of night skies yield my 

peeling skin for moments, and soon these moments turn to everything between my scrawny wrists and 

rocketing ashes of light.

 I hope for waves of ambitions and glowing creations to lead me somewhere buried in the shaded 

temples of hope. I’m able to grow into stumbling towers and thundering petals of flowers. I’ve searched 

and discovered a safe sound to the letters written in between my longing sentences. The notes played 

in strummed strings of a guitar and violin soar in ways of closed and opening doors.

 I mount down landscapes filled with tainted heart strings, I believe the grasses of striped wanting’s 

build and shield all the dreams held in everyone’s panic-stricken fingers, as well as my warm holds. 

Inspiration dwells and lives in the world around me, in the things belonging to the salted earth.

I’ve pinned numerous shining pages to my chest and my freckled ears, I’ve molded singing breezes 

into my own open brain. I am all the books in my crowded room, all the music playing in me, and all the 

simple beauty within the trees grown on this blazing atmosphere.