This song is a shelter.
Not everyone comes out with flags and fireworks.
Some people whisper before they ever shout. Some don’t know the words yet. Some are just trying to breathe.

“Safe Here” is for them — the ones still finding their way, still peeling back the layers of fear.
It doesn’t push. It doesn’t demand.
It simply says: “You don’t have to have the answer to deserve love.”

Built on soft piano and fingerpicked guitar, this track wraps itself around you like a friend saying,
“You’re not late. You’re not broken. You’re just becoming.”

It’s a song to sit in the quiet with you, until you’re ready to speak.

Safe Here

She thought it was love.
The way he held her so tight.
The way he said she was everything.
The way he never let her out of his sight.

At first, it looked like protection.
But eventually, she realized — it was control.

He worshipped her publicly,
but in private, she wasn’t allowed to breathe without asking.

Every compliment came with a leash.
Every “I love you” ended with a threat.
He wrapped her in guilt, called it grace.
Told her she was sacred, then dragged her down like a sinner.

This song is the unraveling.
The moment she sees the gold band on her finger not as a promise —
but a shackle.

“Choke Chain Halo” is about how control can wear a disguise.
It can sound like kindness.
Look like devotion.
But when it tightens…
you realize you’re not being held.
You’re being owned.

And she refuses to be owned anymore.


Choke Chain Halo

She stayed longer than she should have —
not because she was weak,
but because she had mouths to feed.
Little hands that trusted her,
tiny voices that called her "Mama."

She hid the bruises.
She wiped the tears before school drop-offs.
She whispered apologies they didn’t understand.

But one day, the line got crossed.
And that was it.

She became something else.
Not just a survivor.
Not just a woman.

She became a fucking warrior.

This song is about the moment she said:
"You don’t get to hurt my babies. You don’t get to hurt me."

She didn’t just fight back —
she burned the whole goddamn house down.
Not with matches —
with truth.
With bravery.
With the kind of love that stops being soft and starts being unbreakable.

“Mother. Fighter. Survivor.” is more than a song —
it’s a battle cry.
It’s protection turned into fire.
And it ends with the only words he ever deserved to hear:

Fuck. You.

Mother. Fighter. Survivor.

After the screaming ends, the silence can be even louder.

She’s alone now.
Not in fear — in space.
The apartment is quiet.
No footsteps to flinch at.
No voice demanding an apology.

But peace doesn’t come easy.

She puts on music,
but every song reminds her of a time when love was a weapon.
The stereo hums with memories —
some soft, some jagged.

She doesn’t skip the songs anymore.
She lets them play.
She sits in the smoke,
in the past,
in the ashes of everything she survived.

This isn’t a sad song.
It’s a reckoning.
It’s her lighting a candle in the ruins,
putting the needle down,
and realizing she’s still here —
breathing, healing, listening.

"Ashes in the Stereo" is about facing the wreckage,
and choosing to press play anyway.

Ashes in the Stereo

She’s not soft anymore.
Not in the way they told her to be.

She was gentle once —
quiet, forgiving, desperate to be enough.
But survival sharpened her.

Now she has teeth.

This song is the moment she stops hiding her power.
It’s not just that she made it out —
it’s that she came back stronger.
Smarter.
Dangerous in a way that says,
"Try me. I dare you."

She doesn’t need to scream to be scary.
Her calm is louder than chaos.
Her scars don’t beg for pity —
they shine like warnings.

"Teeth in the Wire" is about becoming the thing she needed
when no one came to save her.
It’s not revenge.
It’s resurrection.

She isn’t just surviving anymore.
She’s wired to win.


Teeth in the Wire

Everyone thought she was strong —
because she never cried in public,
because she held it all together,
because she smiled when people asked how she was doing.

But it was a lie.
A necessary one.

This song strips it all away.
No armor.
No makeup.
No “I’m fine.”

Just the truth:
She’s tired.
She’s hurt.
She’s healing — but it’s messy and slow.

"Hollow Crown" is the sound of her admitting she doesn’t have it all figured out.
That being a survivor doesn’t mean you’re okay every day.
That strength doesn’t always roar — sometimes, it whispers through tears.

She doesn’t want to be a queen.
She doesn’t want the pedestal.
She just wants to be real.

And in that raw honesty…
she finds something more powerful than any crown.

She finds herself.

Hollow Crown

She got out.
She changed the locks.
She learned how to breathe again.

But no one tells you that even after the bruises fade —
the noise stays.

This song lives in that aftermath.
She’s in a safe space now,
but her mind hasn’t caught up.

The ceiling feels lower than it should.
Her thoughts don’t shut off.
She overthinks a glance,
a sound,
a silence.

She knows she’s free,
but she doesn’t feel free — yet.

"Low Ceiling, Loud Mind" is about the invisible part of survival.
It’s about the healing that no one sees.
The part where she smiles at brunch,
but spirals in bed at 2 a.m.

And still — she doesn’t give up.
She doesn’t go back.
She stays in the noise,
fighting for quiet.

Because peace isn’t something she finds.
It’s something she builds —
brick by fucking brick.


Low Ceiling, Loud Mind

He had a pattern.
So did she.

He’d hurt her.
She’d cry.
He’d apologize.
She’d forgive him.
Then it would all start again.

She thought it was love.
It was just repetition —
a loop dressed up as loyalty.

This song is the moment she hits stop.
Not pause. Not skip.
Stop.

No more replays.
No more second chances.
No more hoping the past will finally end differently.

She’s not breaking the cycle —
she’s burying it.
Deep enough it can’t climb out.
Far enough it can’t call her name.

"Buried on Repeat" is her funeral for every excuse she made,
every lie she believed,
every time she went back thinking it would be different.

It never was.
But now she is.

And the next time someone tries to pull her back?

They’ll find an empty grave and a locked gate.


Buried on Repeat

This one doesn’t sing.
It speaks.

It speaks to every survivor who was told to be quiet,
who was blamed,
dismissed,
laughed at,
left behind.

It speaks for them,
with rage,
with clarity,
with love like a fist.

This isn’t poetry.
This is a voice standing in the rubble saying,
“You’re still here. I see you. And you matter.”

It doesn’t soften the truth.
It screams it calmly.

It calls out every abuser.
It dares the system to listen.
It throws a lifeline to anyone still trapped in their own house of bruises.

"Worth More Than Silence" isn’t a song.
It’s a warning.
A promise.
A revolution wrapped in gravel and breath.

You are not invisible.
You are not to blame.
You are not alone.

You’re worth more.
So much fucking more.


Worth More Than Silence

This album has blood under its nails.
It’s heavy.
It hurts.
It drags ghosts out of closets and burns down houses built on fear.

But even after all that —
she laughs.

Not because everything’s okay,
but because she made it.
And sometimes, after surviving hell,
you need a song that doesn’t ask for anything but a grin.

“Whistle and Spill” is that song.
It’s nonsense on purpose.
It’s healing in its weirdest form —
a toe-tapper for the broken and brilliant.

There’s no message here.
Just play.
Just nonsense words, whistling wind, and spilling coffee while dancing barefoot in a kitchen that used to be quiet with fear.

Because after everything,
she gets to be ridiculous.
She gets to sing shit that doesn’t make sense.
She gets to be happy —
even if the joy looks a little unhinged.

This track is proof:
Survival isn’t always solemn.
Sometimes, it’s fucking stupid and perfect.


Whistle & Spill

By the time you get here,
you’ve crawled through fire.
You’ve screamed, cried, fought, healed, bled, and laughed again.
And now?

You sit in a quiet room
with the window cracked —
and for once, it doesn’t feel like the calm before the storm.
It feels like peace… weird, shaky, earned peace.

This song doesn’t make perfect sense.
It’s part daydream, part inside joke,
part whisper from a mind that’s finally safe enough to wander.

It’s not about trauma.
It’s about what comes after —
the strange joy of being alive,
the little rituals,
the way the sunlight lands on your face in the morning and you think,
“Holy shit, I’m still here.”

“Crack a Window, Let It Talk” is like breathing out after holding it for years.
It’s about letting life be weird,
letting the breeze in,
letting the silence speak back.

Because healing isn’t just heavy.
Sometimes, it’s hilarious.
Sometimes, it’s absurd.
Sometimes, it’s just sitting alone, grinning at nothing,
and thinking:
"I’m gonna be okay."


Crack a Window, Let It Talk

Mike Baker: Artist, Optimist, Connector

Mike Baker is more than just a musician; he's a storyteller, a pioneer in the fusion of art and technology, and a beacon of hope in a world that often seems shadowed by doubt and despair. With a career that spans the intersection of music, writing, and digital artistry through AI, Mike has carved a unique path in the creative world, one that seeks to connect, inspire, and uplift.

At the heart of Mike's life and work is his role as a devoted husband, father, and community leader. These facets of his life not only define him but also deeply influence his music, infusing his songs with a profound sense of empathy, love, and responsibility. Mike's journey through the complexities of life, experiencing its highs and lows, its shadows and its light, has imbued him with a rich perspective that he passionately shares through his art.

"Shadows of Hope," Mike's first album, is a culmination of his experiences and his vision. This 20-track masterpiece is a testament to his journey, showcasing his ability to delve into the depths of human emotion and emerge with messages of resilience and optimism. Through his innovative use of AI, Mike explores new dimensions of expression, creating an album that resonates with the collective experiences of struggle, discovery, and joy.

Mike's goal has always been to use his talents to bring people together, to create a space where hope can flourish and joy can be shared. He believes in the power of music as a universal language, one that can heal, unite, and inspire individuals to choose hope over despair. His work is a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there is light to be found, and that together, we can emerge stronger.

As a community leader, Mike is committed to making a difference, whether through his music, his actions, or his words. He has seen the darkness from both sides and has chosen to be a force for positivity, encouraging others to do the same. Mike hopes that his music not only connects people from all walks of life but also brings a sense of joy and understanding to anyone who listens.

In a world that often feels divided, Mike Baker stands out as a unifying force, an artist whose work transcends the boundaries of genre and medium to touch the hearts of listeners everywhere. Through "Shadows of Hope" and beyond, Mike continues to share his energy with the world, a reminder that in the midst of life's challenges, hope is always within reach.

Safe Here

Mike Baker

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