Copy of Songs for the Lost Ones

In every heart, there is an empty space — a hollow we carry quietly through our days. This song is a gentle reminder that even our deepest emptiness can become the soil where hope takes root. The hollow is not the end of the story; it is the beginning of the search for light.


There’s a hollow place inside my chest,
Silent as morning before the birds wake.
I carry it with me through empty rooms,
A quiet weight, a nameless ache.

I have touched the edges of belonging,
But never crossed the silent line.
There’s a key I never found,
And a door I cannot name.

Every echo in my bones is a question,
A map with no directions home.
I listen for footsteps that never come—
Only my breath, turning into stone.

I have touched the edges of belonging,
But never crossed the silent line.
There’s a key I never found,
And a door I cannot name.

The Hollow Place

We all set a place at the table for the parts of ourselves we fear have wandered too far. Even when it feels like no one returns, life quietly invites us to keep the door open. Sometimes, hope is simply the act of waiting with an open heart — trusting that, one day, we’ll find our way home, or that home will find us.

I built a shelter out of wishes,
Lit candles for the ones I lost.
But no footsteps echo in my hallway,
No voices call me home.

No one comes home,
No one comes home,
I wait and I wait,
But no one comes home.

Night after night,
I set the table for my missing self.
I sing to the shadows on the wall,
But only silence answers.

No one comes home,
No one comes home,
I wait and I wait,
But no one comes home.

Maybe I am the ghost
I keep waiting for,
Turning the key
In an invisible door.

No one comes home,
No one comes home,
I wait and I wait,
But no one comes home.

No One Comes Home

There are times we feel weightless and unmoored, floating through days without direction. Yet every breath — no matter how restless — holds the possibility of grounding. In drifting, we discover new currents; in searching, we learn to trust the quiet promise of another morning.

I breathe
but feel no ground—
My heart floats
somewhere above the world.

Restless air,
nowhere to land.

I watch myself through distant glass,
A shape dissolving
in every reflection,
Always moving,
never arriving.

Restless air,
nowhere to land.

Somewhere, the stars remember my name.
But down here
I am only a wandering breath
searching for an anchor.


Breath Without Anchor

In the mystery of dreams, our souls wander free — searching, healing, remembering what hope feels like. This song asks gentle questions, believing that even when we feel lost in darkness, there is a hidden place where we are whole again. Night, too, is full of secret dawns.

Where do you go when you sleep?
What do you leave behind in the dark?
Are you lost in a field of silent voices,
Or running through doors with no locks?

Do you find the pieces you’re missing?
Are you whole for a moment in dreams?
Where do you go, where do you go
when you sleep?

Do you walk with the shadows of strangers?
Do you gather the stars in your hands?
Is there a place you call home for an hour,
Some secret that night understands?

Do you find the pieces you’re missing?
Are you whole for a moment in dreams?
Where do you go, where do you go
when you sleep?

Where Do You Go When You Sleep

Style note: Spiritual, almost hymnal, with piano and subtle strings. A slow build, from vulnerability to an uplifting chorus. Lyrics are introspective and intimate.


When the world grows quiet,
I hear the silence that knows me best.
It holds all the words I never spoke,
A gentle weight inside my chest.

The silence that knows me
carries every sorrow,
It sings me to sleep
and meets me tomorrow.

There’s comfort in darkness,
In secrets I cannot confess.
But silence holds me without judgment,
It’s the one who forgives,
and forgets.

The silence that knows me
carries every sorrow,
It sings me to sleep
and meets me tomorrow.

The Silence That Knows Me

Sometimes our bodies feel strange, and life feels borrowed. Yet, even in disconnection, there is a quiet invitation to rediscover ourselves. Every unfamiliar reflection is a reminder: as long as we are here, the story isn’t finished, and our place in the world can always be found anew.

I walk inside the skin of the world,
Trying to fit into the seams.
This body is a borrowed coat,
Heavy with someone else’s dreams.

I don’t know the shape of my own hands,
Or the sound of my unspoken name.
I press my face to the glass of living,
But nothing ever feels the same.

I am a ghost in my own reflection,
Moving where the shadows lead.
The city hums beneath my feet,
But I can’t find the place I need.

I don’t know the shape of my own hands,
Or the sound of my unspoken name.
I press my face to the glass of living,
But nothing ever feels the same.

Skin of the World

Longing is proof that our hearts are alive — that we yearn because life matters, and because hope endures. This song is for everyone who feels the ache of wanting more. Let longing be your companion, not your enemy: it’s the light that guides us forward, even on the darkest days.


Longing has a shape,
Soft as winter’s breath.
It lingers on my lips,
Follows me past death.

Oh, the shape of longing—
A shadow on my wall.
It curls around my heartbeat,
And never leaves at all.

It waits behind the curtains,
Sings in empty halls.
I find it in my footprints
And every time I fall.

Oh, the shape of longing—
A shadow on my wall.
It curls around my heartbeat,
And never leaves at all.

The Shape of Longing

Some things are never fully found, and some questions remain unanswered. But there is beauty in the search itself, and hope in every step we take. Remember, you are not broken; you are simply on a journey. Life’s greatest treasures are often discovered on the way, not at the destination.

You search for a reason,
For a place to belong.
But maps are made of paper,
And every road feels wrong.

Some things are never found,
Some doors stay closed.
You are not broken—
Just unfound, I suppose.

You leave your name on windows,
You write it in the rain.
But nothing answers back,
And silence knows your pain.

Some things are never found,
Some doors stay closed.
You are not broken—
Just unfound, I suppose.

Unfound

We are all works in progress, almost arriving, almost whole. This song is a celebration of being "almost" — the in-between space where growth, hope, and healing happen. You don’t have to have it all together; life is full, even when unfinished.

I’m almost here,
But not quite home.
Touching the surface
Of something unknown.

Almost here,
Almost whole.
Reaching for light
I can almost hold.

I walk through the twilight,
Between what was and will be.
The world feels transparent,
But it’s finally seeing me.

Almost here,
Almost whole.
Reaching for light
I can almost hold.

Almost Here

There is a light in every soul, even when it forgets its own name. This final song is a gentle blessing: may you remember that hope returns, and that dawn always follows night. Your light is real, even when you can’t see it yet.

There is a light
That forgot its name,
Burning somewhere
Beyond all shame.

It flickers in silence,
It glows in the rain—
A promise unbroken,
A hope without pain.

I walk toward the morning,
Though shadows remain.
I follow the light
That forgot its name.

It flickers in silence,
It glows in the rain—
A promise unbroken,
A hope without pain.

And I remember,
As dawn softly came—
I, too, am the light
That forgot its name.

Copy of Songs for the Lost Ones

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