I rest my hand on my daughter’s chest. Beneath my touch, her heartbeat jumps like a rabbit through wildflowers. “Can you feel love?” I ask. She giggles and presses her tiny palm over my heart. “I can’t feel yours, Mommy.” I cup her cheek and tell her to listen. She leans her ear against my sternum. I hold my breath, afraid she might not find it. The room seems to listen with her until she murmurs, “I hear it.” I ask what it’s saying. She holds still, her lips parting slightly. I whisper that every beat repeats the same words.
I love you.
She doesn’t answer for a moment. Then she nods, leans closer, and squeezes me tight. “I hear it,” she says again. I close my eyes, memorizing the sound.
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.
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.
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.
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. 🌸
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. 🙂
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. 🙂
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.
Wolverine Lily 