"The pain of a dream being robbed pales in comparison to the panic it elicits in one's soul.
If your reason to breathe is taken, its up to the hueman to find an equally apt heartbeat."
-The Poet Solace Taylor, Owner, Designer


Nebraska Cornhusker football safety turned poet Solace Taylor has a pension for the pen as much as the mic. He has published a book of short poems by the name, “Windsprints “, and has logged a multitude of recorded musical projects put forth independently.

Peace to the universe. Back in 2009 I was beaten unconscious by a client I was transporting in my car for my job. I suffered a traumatic brain injury and it has left me with PTSD. I subsequently was fired from my job for not being able to return in the time frame medical leave provided, evicted from my apartment, and have pushed away or hurt those dearest to me. The doctors and therapists say things heal with time but with matters of the brain I find the issues do not dissipate they evolve into deeper problems than just the physical recovery from the assault. After the numbness subsided I was left with raw, unchecked, an unaddressed emotion. It’s like something short circuited in my head where I couldn’t control my mood swings, panic attacks, or thoughts in general. Unable to verbalize my struggle was exhausting my spirit and threatening my livelihood. I couldn’t get past the static noise in my head long enough to put my thoughts together in a coherent manner. I stopped booking shows, I stopped recording music, and I stopped being a productive member of society. As a poet, I bare my soul for a living. So, what happens when a poet stops bearing their soul? A slow demise. The guilt compounds with the acknowledged sins of omission. The tongue wraps around the eye teeth so one can’t see or speak the evil its encountered. The ears fall deaf to sounds of concern, care, or affection. You feel your soul emptying into the bowels of misery, where emotional constipation begins and doesn’t appear to end. Mental illness will choke u from the inside-out if you let it so that’s how I addressed it, from the inside-out. Since I couldn’t hear anything else anyway, I literally just listened to my heart beat. The peace one seeks in the midst of mayhem is a quiet storm in itself. It can suffocate if gone about wrong. The difference between holding one’s breath waiting for something to subside and actively seeking a breath of fresh air is as life changing as the initial event that traumatized you. In order to move on, in order to survive, in order to maximize my potential as a hueman being, I had to be still. I had to recharge my battery and regain my cool. Now the question is how can one be still without being stuck? How can one revive nerves that have died? These keys to life I find in art. In art there is solace. In solace there is love. In love there is peace the peace in which I seek. There is no time lost if you can learn from the time taken to heal.