Pink Floyd and U2 greet me,
as I walk through my doorway.
I quickly scamper across my floor,
avoiding stray hoodies and books.
My record player smiles,
As I place Rumors, Fleetwood Mac’s album
onto her waiting hand.
Stevie Nicks’ voice surrounds me,
as I crawl into bed,
despite the early time.
I pick up my book,
and my pillows welcome me.
My Christmas lights dangle
from the ceiling.
Kurt Cobain gazes,
though his eyes are distant,
onto the crowd of Unplugged fans.
My other side of Kurt Cobain,
squeals his guitar,
probably to the beginning riffs of Lithium.
I shift my gaze to my guitar;
acoustic, but mighty.
It sends feelings of loneliness,
yearning to be played.
My fingers form their own brains,
shifting into familiar chords and positions.
I whiz through All Apologies, Stairway to Heaven,
and Come as You Are.   
The music makes my room home.
And the feeling of home means everything.
This is the story of my haven,
and I am at peace.
-Emma Starns