love – Wolverine Lily

The Graveyard of Hollywood Dreams

A woman hurried across the street, dodging a man crouched in the corner, talking to himself. His hair was long, his clothes smelled, and his raspy voice mumbled something that made passersby uncomfortable. Most stare at the ground and veer away.

In Los Angeles, this is as normal as a sunny day. We call them homeless, crazy, or addicts raising tents under a freeway. But we don’t see them as what they once were: humans with big dreams.

Not all of them came chasing fame. Some escaped disasters.

Back then, there was courage in their hearts. They packed their cars or boarded a bus with a guitar. Some told their parents they were leaving their small town because there was a world out there—a place where dreams take shape. They arrived in Hollywood, seeking their big break.

It’s brave; it takes confidence. Yet, we won’t admit it, or perhaps, we never think this deeply.

But chasing dreams in Los Angeles has a lethal price tag. Undoubtedly, some made it, while others fell into the throat of this city. LA chews on dreamers, swallowing them piece by piece. Rent first. Then health. Then dignity. While the sun shines bright. And when the time and resources run out, the verdict follows: ‘they didn’t try hard enough.’

This is survivorship bias.

We hear inspiring stories from singers, actors, or entrepreneurs who slept in a car and “never gave up.” Social media is flooded with success biographies of high school dropouts-turned-icons, praising perseverance, resilience, and never quitting.

But what about the other side? The majority: the people who gave it all and still didn’t make it. Life intervened, money ran out, or timing didn’t line up.

Is the effort alone enough?
We love breakthrough tales. They are inspirational and make the world seem fair. But that’s not true; life isn’t fair. Not everyone excels from trying, and not everyone succeeds.

Cemeteries remind us of that. Have you ever walked past rows, reading names, and finding small gaps between birth and death? I ask, what’s their story? What did they dream of?

Los Angeles is a cemetery— except the names are still breathing.
The graveyard of broken dreams lives on sidewalks. In tents. In people we avoid because if we look too closely, we might recognize ourselves.

I think about this because my child wants to sing. Just a girl with a voice and a dream.
She plays guitar, sings, and… believes. I support her, drive her to lessons, and applaud from my couch.
Dreams are beautiful—I don’t want her to stop dreaming! But in LA, dreams without a backup plan are like jumping off a cliff and hoping to land on a mattress. Especially now with social media blaring, “just keep pushing indefinitely, success is inevitable.”

Is it? Really?

Having an alternate plan isn’t a failure. Proposing checkpoints or a deadline doesn’t mean quitting. It’s tracking progress instead of blindly sacrificing years and hoping luck shows up before rent is due.
What’s noble about starving for a dream when there were other ways to survive?

The happiest lives I know run on two tracks: financial stability and passion; one feeds the soul, and one feeds the body. Yet social media favors extremes: Fame or failure. It doesn’t show the middle: the people who built parallel paths. And it certainly doesn’t show the ones who disappeared.

Every soul sleeping on the street has a story. Some are still missed back at home. Some never had a home to begin with.

I want my daughter to believe in herself, knowing that her worth (or her singing) doesn’t depend on applause or validation.

Don’t let a dream kill your life. Feed your mouth before you feed your dreams. LA is full of people who believed—and paid that lethal price.

So work, create, pursue, and dream. Dream boldly— with your head on your shoulders and your feet on the ground.

Whispered Dreams

Whisper your dreams to me—
I will plant them like seeds
in my porcelain palm,
a cup too small for doubt to find.

I’ll nourish them with spring water,
bathe them in moonlight,
until they sprout through fog,
like buckwheat clawing through stones.

I will shield them from winds,
shade them from sun’s heat,
and hold them close
through winter’s teeth.

I won’t let them wilt—
until their bloom seeps the air,
and holds time
still.

So put your lips to my ear
and whisper—
your dreams.

Her Black Mirrors

She struggled to sit,
bones shivering,
staggered—

A feeble growl
a warning, stay back.
I held her eyes—
black as shungite,
two mirrors of agony,
pleading.

I’d pray against needles,
a quiet, natural end.
I couldn’t—

She battled upright,
for one last exchange.
Her blackest pools
reflected death itself,
hurling an awl into my heart.

I knew.
It was time—
her—to go,
mine—to let her go.

Now,
no barks for a mailman,
a leash chimes on a hanger,
a tennis ball cornered in silence.

And I—
I still see her pain,
engraved in my eyelids.
Two mirrors—
death staring, haunting—
burned into me
like black ice.

Author’s Note:
It’s been years; time has moved on, yet this has never left me.

Ghost in the Valley

Atop my heart,
where its two hills bend inward,
lies the valley.

You sit astride—
a stubborn knight,
neither advancing,
nor dismounting.

Why do you remain?

I never invited you,
fearing your sword,
its blade honed on our silence.
I left the wicket ajar—
a slit to watch you—
watching me.

But three kin torches at my gate—
scorched your sight,
ignited your fear.
You fled like a coward,
left my depths unclaimed.
Your halberd scraped my hollow;
its echo—a cathedral bell,
tolling the coarse-silk wound.

Or is it me—
my longing—a magnet
latching your armor,
stabbing me?

It’s me.
I refused to let you go.
I stranded your ghost
in this valley.
Its shroud blinds me.

Author’s Note:
I usually don’t let people in. Writing breaks that habit. I composed this poem with a specific notion, then thought about this blog—like a wicket slit opening to strangers. It’s where I create, think, and process. Sometimes poems crack my gate wide. I chose to share this one—probably for that very reason. Yet lately, I find myself questioning the purpose of this space at all.

Unveiled

If I revealed my raw self to you,
peeled the makeup,
stripped the cloth from my body,
Bare—
unfolding every crease
carved in silence by time—
the eternal butcher,
dragging a dull blade across my skin.

Would you meet my eyes,
lock them in yours,
and embrace all I surrender?
Or would your gaze slip,
chasing youth in someone else?

Would your fingers trace the map
my face has become,
my eyes—Sirius at midnight—
guiding you into the gorge
where I’ve buried all my love?

If you leaned closer,
beyond the façade of scars,
you’d hear the crackle.
Would you let its warmth
burn through your defenses?

Yet, if you falter and turn away,
my heart—a resilient pendulum,
will endure stabs of every sway.
With or without your love,
in all that I am,
I will remain.

Author’s Note:
This piece took nearly a year to complete. It demanded brutal honesty, many attempts and revisions. It’s about aging, the courage to face it, and the fire of love that refuses to die—even when love itself has long been buried. For anyone who’s felt this way: this is for you. Only a few will understand.

I’ll probably tweak it again someday, but for now, this is it.

Meant to Bloom

I was meant to bloom—
unfurl, sing, and shine, not
be tended or trimmed, not
molded for duty and possession.

I was meant to bloom, not
decorate an entropic cave, not
drizzle in vain someone’s emptiness
with the sweetness of my effervescent petals—
infusing their spoiled, sour strands.

Even in the drought,
I drank rainbows through my veins.
My tendrils breathed warmth into soil,
while the sky hid behind clumped clouds.
I stretched toward muffled sunlight.

I was meant to bloom.

And then it rained, not
to nourish or cleanse.
Poured.
Unstoppable—
the ground swelled,
my petals sagged,
roots dislodged,
my garden drenched to swamp.

Yet I stand, sturdy but hollow.
They nest in my shade,
leech my youth,
and — call it love.

Slowly,
quietly,
I sink.

Still—

Dreaming of butterflies,
even a wilt can reach the sun.
Single ray ignites its desire.

Butterflies will come
And I will bloom…
as I was always meant to.

Author’s Note:
Not everyone who stands tall is thriving.
Not every flower is there for you to pick.
For every time you bloomed in silence, offered too much, or were mistaken…
This one is personal. 🌸

Insatiable

Cage me with your limbs,
Nourish the flames of our desire.
Let me hold you so close—
Feel you—
Melt to mist in our seamless embrace.

Our breaths entwine,
Drenched in the sultry steam,
Until your body nourishes mine,
Subdue my scorching thirst for you—

Insatiable—

And release my spirit,
Like the heat shimmer rising from the sand,
Ascending beyond ethereal heights.
I surrender…

And when we fall back to earth,
Together—whole and bound,
As one.
Indivisible.

Author’s Note:
This piece may look familiar, but like passion itself, poetry evolves. I removed the unrefined version a while ago because it felt unfinished, incomplete. I let it fully breathe, then reshaped it—until it became what it was always meant to be. This is the latest version, more final. Though still… insatiable. 🙂

Little Chalky Feet

Her little feet with chalky dust,
Growing up too fast to last!
Sidewalk art with siblings’ cheer,
A special time my heart holds dear.

Amid each day’s relentless race,
These tiny toes print love I chase,
And memories carved to last forever,
Of joyful days we laughed together.

Author’s Note:
Some moments are just too precious to let fade, right? My youngest daughter’s chalky feet—capturing the fun and colors of a sunny afternoon in the park (before she turned 4.) I stumbled upon this photo and couldn’t let it go. It inspired this short poem and now lives here, safe and treasured. 🙂

Hunter’s Moon: Phases in Life

I’ve always felt drawn to full moons. My grandma used to call me a child of the night, and I guess she was right. Last night’s Hunter’s Moon felt especially mystical, barely visible through the folding LA clouds, like the closing of a chapter. We all move through phases in life—sometimes we shine brightly, and other times we retreat into stillness, reflecting. At least, some of us do.

I used to love running at night under the full moon. Its silvery glow lit up my feet and the quiet streets, and I was captivated by it. But one night, I got hit by a car, and… well, that put an end to those midnight runs. Afterward, I embraced walks with their quiet wisdom, listening to what the night had to offer instead of sweating through it. You can spot me in the neighborhood, collecting my thoughts, often sipping hot tea. It’s the closest I get to meditation. The quiet has its own way of sparking ideas, doesn’t it?

No matter where you are, take a moment to look up. You might catch a glimpse between the clouds—maybe a thought, or even an answer to something that’s been resting heavy on your heart. These are moments meant for reflection. And dream.

A Stormy Encounter: A Kiss Worth Waiting For…

Author’s Note:
I’ve always wanted to write a passionate scene, even though, in my opinion, romantic plots are often overdone. Still, many horror stories I’ve read miss something… that subtle romantic subplot showing the soft and vulnerable side of the character. I needed to make sure my story didn’t overlook this aspect. True and authentic love is incredibly hard to find, right? Maybe that’s why we turn to books, hoping to glimpse and experience its magic through the characters we follow. Yet, if you’re lucky enough to experience the perfect kiss even once in your life, you’re truly fortunate. It’s worth the wait! On that note, as a self-proclaimed romantic, I had to weave this delicate thread into my dark story, obviously. 🙂

Here’s a glimpse of that moment from chapter 14 of my project, without giving too much away. ❤️

He put both hands firmly on her face, preventing her from slipping away. There was no way he would let her go this time. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

Before Nayah could respond, his lips found hers, soft and gentle at first, but full of hunger and intensity, waiting for her for far too long. She realized in that instant how much she wanted this—wanted him—more than she had ever admitted. She wrapped her arms around him, one hand sliding into his drenched hair. Her fingers dug in, feeling the tenderness of his skin. It was soothing and addictive—his warmth against the cold rain.

His hand shifted to cradle her neck, drawing her closer, as though he would never let her go. It wasn’t just the kiss—it was the way his entire body leaned into hers, every movement charged with meaning. His chest pressed against hers with desire to fill the spaces she had kept hidden from the world. Nayah responded, releasing a soft sigh. Her knees buckled slightly, but she shifted closer, seeking more of him. The kiss wasn’t just physical; it was an unraveling, a collapse of the last walls between them.

For a moment, nothing else existed—no haunted houses, no missing journals, no demons or keys—just this.

But the passionate kiss was interrupted when a sudden, loud crack of thunder reverberated beneath their feet. They pulled apart, both gasping, startled by the sound.

Nayah stepped back breathless. “What… what was that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice tight with unease.
The sky had darkened even further, thick clouds rolling in, casting the town square into a dark twilight. But something else felt off. Nayah sensed it—a prickling fear crawling over her skin.