Walters fall Perspective on Lock And Key

What drives me to continue writing is the need to express emotions that often go unspoken. Writing gives me a space to confront and process my struggles, my triumphs, and everything in between. I believe that songs have the power to connect, to give people a voice when they might not have one, and to help others feel less alone in their own journeys. Music is my way of channeling the raw, vulnerable parts of myself, and I know it can resonate with others in a way that transcends just sound—it becomes a shared experience.

It’s the hope that, through my words, someone might find the courage to face their own battles, to heal, or even to embrace the parts of themselves that they’ve kept hidden. That’s what keeps me writing—knowing that my music can offer a glimpse of light in someone else's darkness, and that, together, we can navigate this chaotic world.

“Lock and Key” was inspired by a time in my life when I felt like I was desperately searching for love, but no matter how much I gave, it seemed distant. It’s a reflection of the vulnerability of giving everything to someone who can’t or won’t give it back. Sometimes, love feels like a locked door—no matter how hard you try to find the key, it just stays closed. It’s a song about the pain of unreciprocated love and the search for closure.

With “Lock and Key,” my goal wasn’t simply to write a catchy melody or tell a story—it was to externalize that ache of unreciprocated love and turn it into something tangible. I was aiming to:

Name the Vulnerability
By singing about “begging for love” and feeling shut out, i give voice to the shame and confusion that come when your heart is on the line and the other person stays distant.

Create Catharsis
Turning that experience into a song lets me—and anyone who’s been there—feel the pain fully, then release it. The act of performing “Lock and Key” becomes an emotional exhale, a way to let go of what i can’t control.

Connect with Listeners
Unrequited love is universal. My goal was to craft lyrics and a mood that make someone else nod their head, think, “That’s exactly how it felt for me,” and know they’re not alone in that experience.

Find Closure
Writing the song was a step toward accepting that some doors stay locked. By laying it all out—desire, hurt, frustration—I create my own sense of resolution, even if the relationship didn’t give me one.

Transform Pain into Art
Ultimately, I wanted to show that even the most painful moments can become something beautiful. “Lock and Key” is proof that vulnerability, when shared, has its own kind of strength.

So the next time you play it, remember: my goal was never just to sing about being shut out—it was to turn that loneliness into a bridge, drawing listeners closer through shared truth.

My biggest musical heroes are the ones who wore their wounds on their sleeves:

Kurt Cobain for that raw, unfiltered scream of vulnerability—how he turned pain into anthems and made millions feel seen.

Aaron Lewis (for Staind and his solo work) taught me the power of quiet confession—how a simple, aching melody can cut deeper than any roar.

Chris Cornell for that soaring, wounded clarity in his voice—how he married beauty and grit so every note felt like it could shatter and then heal you.

They showed me that honesty—no matter how ugly or bruised—can become something transcendent.

One of my songs, "Ashes in the Rearview," was inspired by a real-life experience of losing a partner and stepchild, spiraling into self-destruction, and facing the consequences of my actions. It was a point in my life where everything seemed to fall apart—memories, relationships, and a sense of identity.

I had to face the wreckage I’d created, and in that confrontation, I realized how much I had been running away from. The imagery in the song—the rearview mirror, broken memories, the wreckage—came directly from that feeling of regret and the overwhelming weight of loss.

In that moment, writing the song became a way to process the grief, the pain, and the remorse. It wasn’t just about looking back; it was about finding a way to look forward, despite everything that had fallen apart. The song became a tool for reckoning with that darkness and, in a sense, reclaiming it through music.

Sonically, I’d say Kurt Cobain, Aaron Lewis, and Chris Cornell have had the biggest influence on my music. Their raw, unfiltered sound and the way they blend heaviness with emotional depth really resonate with me.

Kurt Cobain’s distortion-heavy, grunge-driven style speaks to the pain and frustration that often shapes my lyrics. His ability to make vulnerability sound powerful is something I strive for in my own music.

Aaron Lewis, with his stripped-down, acoustic-driven approach, has influenced me to keep things raw and intimate, particularly when telling personal stories. His ability to evoke emotion with just his voice and a guitar is something I admire deeply.

Chris Cornell’s versatility is another big influence. Whether he’s belting out intense rock anthems or singing soul-stirring ballads, his voice carries so much emotional weight, and I strive to create that same emotional connection in my own sound.

These artists all taught me that it’s not just about the technical skill—it’s about how you use sound to express what’s in your soul.
 
 
 
 

Lyrically, Kurt Cobain, Chris Cornell, and Aaron Lewis have been huge influences on my writing.

Kurt Cobain's ability to capture the chaos, confusion, and pain of the human experience in raw, unpolished language has had a lasting impact on how I approach lyrics. He wasn’t afraid to be vulnerable, and that honesty is something I try to channel into my own work.

Chris Cornell’s songwriting, with its poetic yet accessible quality, has inspired me to balance vulnerability with introspection. His lyrics are often dark and heavy but also have a sense of hope or catharsis underneath, which I try to infuse into my own music.

Aaron Lewis, particularly in his solo acoustic work, writes from a deeply personal space. His lyrics often explore themes of heartache, regret, and searching for redemption—things I also like to write about. He’s taught me the power of storytelling, and how sometimes the simplest words can carry the most weight.

All three artists have shown me that lyrics don’t need to be flashy—they just need to be real, unflinching, and able to speak directly to the heart.

A good song, in my opinion, is built on a few essential elements that work together to evoke emotion and make an impact. Here are the key components:

Honest, Relatable Lyrics: The heart of a good song lies in its lyrics. They should feel authentic, whether they're poetic or raw, and connect with the listener on a deep emotional level. A song that speaks truth, whether about love, loss, or self-discovery, resonates more than something that feels generic or forced.

Strong Melody: A good melody sticks with you. It should flow naturally, complementing the mood of the lyrics, whether it’s a soft, melancholic tune or a bold, energetic anthem. The melody is what draws people in and makes them want to hum the song long after it's over.

Emotionally Charged Arrangement: The arrangement can make or break a song. The right instrumentation, dynamics, and tempo can take a song from good to great. It should match the energy of the lyrics and the melody, whether that’s stripped-back and intimate or full-bodied and intense.

Authenticity: A good song is one that feels true to the artist’s voice, no matter the genre. It shouldn’t feel like a formulaic attempt at fitting in with trends. It’s when the artist puts their personal truth and experience into the music that it really stands out.

A Hook That Resonates: The hook is often the most memorable part of a song. It’s the phrase or melody that sticks in the listener’s head, that they can’t stop thinking about. A strong hook has the power to make the song unforgettable.

Vulnerability: This is often what turns a good song into a great one. When an artist is willing to go to the places most people avoid—whether that’s confronting pain, fear, or joy—there’s an undeniable power in that. Vulnerability invites the listener to connect on a deeply personal level.

Pacing and Structure: The way a song is structured—how the verses lead to the chorus, how the bridge builds, how the energy ebbs and flows—can make a huge difference. A song that is too predictable might lose interest, while one with unexpected changes or turns can surprise and engage the listener.

A combination of these elements, executed with passion and honesty, is what makes a song stand out and feel unforgettable. It’s the ability to create something that makes people feel, think, and remember.

I most often weave these threads of my identity into my songs:

Vulnerability & Honest Confession
I refuse to hide the messy parts of myself—the self-doubt, the grief, the nights I couldn’t sleep. That raw openness is the core of my voice.

Survivor Mentality
Growing up in rural Ontario taught me grit. I sing about getting knocked down and finding the strength to stand again, even when the odds feel stacked.

Struggle with Mental Health & Addiction
Anxiety, shame, the pull of self-destructive patterns—all show up in my lyrics. I’ve lived those battles, and I write to break the silence around them.

Blue-Collar Roots
I paint in everyday details—cold kitchen floors, pancake breakfasts, rusted barstools—because those small moments ground the big emotions in real life.

DIY Indie Ethos
There’s no gloss or commercial sheen on my tracks. I embrace imperfections—cracked vocals, ringing guitar strings—because they’re authentically me.

Search for Meaning & Redemption
Every song is a quest—asking the hard questions and hunting for glimmers of hope. I include that restlessness, that refusal to settle for easy answers.

By layering those parts of who I am into chord progressions and lyrics, I create music that isn’t just heard—it’s felt, lived, and shared.

In my opinion, the most difficult part of writing a new song is the moment of vulnerability—putting yourself out there, fully exposing what you’re feeling, even when it feels raw or uncomfortable. It’s one thing to express an idea or a concept; it’s another to dig into the parts of yourself you’ve been avoiding or the emotions that hurt to touch.

That’s where the real challenge lies. Every song demands you to face something head-on, whether it's grief, love, anger, or doubt. And there’s always the pressure of making it real, not just for your audience but for yourself too. Writing is an act of self-discovery, but also a leap of trust—you’re hoping the raw honesty will connect with others, even when you’re not sure if you fully understand it yourself.

Once the core of the song starts to form, things can flow, but that initial moment of breaking through the silence—where you’re unsure if you’ll even have the words to say what’s inside—can be the hardest part.

Yes, I would consider my music an accurate reflection of who I am. Every song I write is a snapshot of my internal world—whether it's raw emotions, personal struggles, or moments of clarity. It’s like holding up a mirror to myself and letting the audience see what’s been stirring inside. There’s no pretension or hiding behind layers. The lyrics often reveal things about myself I haven’t consciously processed, and the music is the outlet through which I can give form to those feelings.

It’s not always easy to share that level of vulnerability, but my music is where I feel most aligned with my true self. In the end, it’s not about crafting a perfect image—it’s about honesty. The pain, the hope, the confusion, and the beauty all come together in a way that feels like it can’t be anything other than me.

When I get stuck, I tend to look for inspiration in places that are a bit outside the usual sources. I find that stepping away from the immediate pressure of songwriting helps me see things differently. Here's where I usually turn:

Life experiences: Sometimes, I go back to moments in my past that might not have fully made sense at the time. I think about relationships, mistakes, or moments of clarity. Even just reflecting on the raw, human experiences of love, grief, or confusion can spark something.

Nature: There’s something about getting outside, especially in the quiet, natural spaces—whether it's the woods, by the water, or just watching the sky—that calms my mind and opens it up. Nature has a way of offering perspective, and I often find new lyrics or ideas flow in after a walk or just sitting in stillness.

Other music and artists: I'll listen to tracks from artists I admire, but not just for their sound. I listen to how they express their emotions, how they construct their narratives, and the themes they explore. Kurt Cobain, Aaron Lewis, and Chris Cornell are great examples of artists whose honesty and emotional depth often kickstart my own writing process when I feel stuck.

Books and poetry: I get inspired by literature that resonates with me, whether it's novels, poetry, or even philosophy. I like the challenge of taking abstract ideas or feelings from reading and translating them into something musical.

Art and photography: Sometimes visual art or photography can open up new channels of thought. A striking image, whether it’s dark, beautiful, or haunting, can get me thinking in new ways about a song or about the feelings I want to explore.

Conversations and people: Sometimes inspiration just comes from a deep conversation with someone who’s gone through something similar or has a perspective that’s different from mine. We all carry experiences and stories within us, and hearing someone else's truth can bring clarity to my own.

Ultimately, when I get stuck, I try to open myself up and not force the process. Inspiration often comes when I least expect it. The key is to be receptive to whatever might spark the next line or idea, even if it feels a bit off the beaten path.

I wouldn’t say I have anything that feels overtly like a "superstition," but I do have certain rituals or habits that help me get in the zone when I’m writing. They aren't necessarily based on belief in luck or fate, but more like personal practices that ground me and help spark creativity.

Here are a few:

Setting the scene: I always have a specific environment when I write. It’s a bit like setting up a mental space to channel my emotions. I make sure it's quiet—no distractions. If I’m working with a guitar, it’s typically in the same place where I feel the most at ease, usually late at night when everything feels still. The isolation lets my mind wander without interruptions.

The first chord: There's a feeling I get when I play the first chord of a song. It’s almost like I need to feel the right tension or tone in my fingers, the right connection between myself and the instrument. It’s not exactly a superstition, but it does feel like the start of something meaningful when the sound feels just right.

The pen or notebook: When it comes to writing lyrics, there’s something important to me about using a physical notebook or journal instead of typing them out first. I feel like the act of writing by hand gives me a closer connection to the words. It’s more intimate than typing on a screen.

The ritual of “playing through”: Before I dive into writing, I often play a few random tunes or unfinished ideas that have been on my mind, just to get my fingers warmed up and the creative process flowing. It’s like prepping my mind for something that’s waiting to be written.

Writing in the dark: Sometimes, I’ll write with the lights off—just the glow of my guitar or the light from my phone. I find it easier to tap into deeper emotions and introspection when everything around me feels minimal and subdued. It’s like my mind is less distracted, more focused.

Silent reflection: When I hit a wall, I’ll just sit quietly for a while—no music, no writing, just reflecting. I’ll close my eyes and let my mind wander through my thoughts or emotions. It feels like it clears the clutter, and sometimes, after sitting in silence, the words come naturally.

Nothing too mystical, but these small things help me get out of my head and into a creative flow. I think it's the mental associations that create a "superstition" type feeling—the rituals that make me feel connected to the music in a deeper way.

How I decide in practice

If an idea or phrase haunts me, I’ll write the lyric first in a notebook, then find chords that echo its mood.
If a riff or progression grabs me, I’ll record it and noodle vocal melodies until words start to settle in.
If I’m really stuck, I’ll hum/jam gibberish over chords—sometimes that “fake lyric” reveals the real lyric once I lean into the feel.

Bottom line: Don’t force one method. Let the strongest spark—be it a line of lyric or a chordal groove—lead the way. Then trust that whatever comes next will complete the song.

I’m most inspired in moments of stark contrast—when something in my world shifts from one extreme to another. For me those are usually:

Right After the Storm
Literally or metaphorically. When the sky clears or a crisis passes, there’s a strange calm full of possibility. Your senses feel sharper and everything—every chord, every word—carries extra weight.

Late-Night Solitude
Around 2–4 AM, when the rest of the world is asleep. There’s no noise, no expectations, just you and whatever’s swirling in your mind. That quiet pushes me inward and words or melodies break through.

First Light / Golden Hour
That moment sunrise turns shadows into color. It’s hopeful and fragile—perfect for capturing contrasts in a song (grief vs. grace, loss vs. possibility).

After a Deep Conversation
When someone shares something real—about pain, love, regret—it awakens new angles in my own story. Hearing another person’s truth cracks open fresh lyrical ideas.
When Revisiting Old Lyrics or Journals

Going back through past notebooks, recordings or half-finished songs often uncovers lines or riffs that spark entirely new directions. Something I wrote years ago will resonate differently today.

Those moments of contrast and clarity—whether triggered by light, silence, or human connection—are where inspiration tends to find me.
 
 
 
 

If I were to be remembered by one song I created, it would be "Broken Soldier."

That song isn’t just a reflection of pain—it’s every scar, every regret, every moment of raw truth I’ve ever lived through, poured into a single track. It speaks for the ones who’ve carried invisible weight for far too long, who’ve fought battles inside themselves that no one else ever saw.

It’s honest.
It’s unfiltered.
It doesn’t ask for sympathy—it just is.

"Broken Soldier" captures my voice at its most vulnerable, but also at its most human. If someone only heard that song, they’d know who I was, what I’ve been through, and what I wanted to give back to the world through music.

That would be enough.

So, the most random topic I ever wrote a song about?

Probably a conversation that never actually happened — just one I imagined having with someone I’d lost touch with. Like, replaying years of silence and trying to write the words we never said. It was strange because it wasn’t based on anything real, just this emotional void I filled with fiction.

It felt random at first… but by the end, it hit harder than some of the real stories.

I find myself consistently drawn to themes of inner conflict, emotional vulnerability, and the struggle to be seen or understood — especially when love, regret, or identity are tangled up in it.

These topics feel unavoidable because they’re so deeply human. Writing about them isn’t just cathartic — it’s a way of holding space for the parts of ourselves we’re often told to hide. There’s a kind of truth in that tension, and for me, songwriting is about bringing that truth to the surface, no matter how raw or uncomfortable it is.

Why those topics?
Because they don’t just make songs — they make connection. And that’s the whole point.