Artist

Texas Hollow Records

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I was born on a cold November night somewhere out in the middle of nowhere. My father was gone before I could walk. All that was left was silence and a mother who clung to a man whose hands were never gentle. I learned early on that screaming doesn’t help that biting my teeth was the only way to survive.

My childhood smelled of cold wood, fear, and nights spent staring into the void because it was safer than looking at a face. I had no friends. Just a stray dog who followed me like he knew I had no one. Later came the guitar. It was the only thing that listened without judging.

By sixteen, I was gone. No goodbyes. No tears. Just the wish to get somewhere that hurt less. I slept in old barns, worked for a warm meal, and wrote lyrics on cigarette packs and scraps of cardboard because words were all I hadn’t lost.

I watched people leave before I could love them. Some taken by alcohol, others by the darkness inside. Not every wound heals. Some turn into songs.

What I write isn’t art. It’s what’s left of life. For those who lie awake at night. For those quietly breaking down. For those who never learned what home feels like.

I don’t know if anyone wants to hear this. But I never really had a choice.

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