𝒯𝑜 𝐿𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝑜𝓇 𝒟𝒾𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝐿𝒜

𝒯𝑜 𝐹𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝐿𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐹𝓇𝑒𝑒𝒹𝑜𝓂

They say: “City of Angels,”
But tell me—
Why do halos hang heavy like nooses?
Why do sirens sing lullabies louder than mothers?
Why does paradise charge rent
in broken dreams and bent ambition?

In L.A.,
you can lose your soul
in a selfie.
You can drown in sunlight
and still die of thirst.
They glamorize the skyline,
but never show you the shadows.

See,
nobody tells you
the stars here burn out fast.
That fame is a drug
with side effects they don’t list—
like paranoia,
like eviction,
like waking up with your purpose pawned
for a blue check and a smile that doesn’t fit.

Billboards don’t hug you.
Palm trees don’t pray for you.
Your neighbors don’t know your name,
but your followers know your filter.
This city can love you fake
and kill you real.
You either hustle or you hemorrhage.
There’s no middle lane in the fast life.

It’s live or die.
In L.A.,
the difference is inches,
timing,
whether you caught the right light
or the wrong look.

But still—
I rise with the smog and believe.
Still, I walk these cracked streets
like they’re gold leaf.

Because maybe living in L.A.
ain’t about escaping death—
It’s about defining life.
Maybe it’s not about who sees you,
but what you see in yourself.

This city teaches you to bend
without breaking.
To shine,
not for likes,
but because your soul refuses to dim.

So I write.
I breathe art into alleyways.
I turn struggle into soundtrack.
I make my scars sing.

Live or die in L.A.?
Nah.
I choose to live LOUD.
To outdream the noise.
To plant roots in this wildfire
and still blossom.

‘Cause in L.A., you don’t just survive—
You write your legend
in streetlight.