A creative reflex —
Writing as a way to reflect
While breaking in between myself —
This is me, finding a recess.

And if kidding around is for kids,
Maybe some parts of me haven’t really grown
up yet.

Still, if I’m set —
Placing a quiet bet
On all these dreams I haven’t cashed in yet —
I hold the right
To keep searching for my best.

Because being better than the me from yesterday
Might be all I’ve got left…
And maybe, that’s enough!

A prideful person looks
Into a mirror without glass —
Because pride won’t let you see
The truth staring back.

I don’t have a license to drive anyone crazy — but I do have a mind
that keeps itself driven. Always on. Dreams at any given. And
I’ve felt the kind of love sickness that lingers too long — where
obsession is the disease of craving for something that was never really
yours to begin with. Envy stays green, growing tall like something
proud. But even weeds grow healthy, and we still call them plants,
right?

I’ve been tied to other people’s hopes — roped in by their strong
faith. "And I still try to believe." But saying that out loud feels like lying
to my own mouth. So I daydream in the interest of peace, trying not
to wake the ghouls I’ve tucked under my thoughts. I’ve had people
toss my advice like a smooth stone in their hand; pretending it’s
weightless, like their hands aren’t made of sand — like shallowness
could ever carry any real depth. But it just echoes the sea.

I always notice the ones who aren’t really seen. The unread...
The Blue and Grey ticks. While others get their messages read and
ignored, I’m just the message never opened. Still typing, still thinking
of the right words. I’ve come to represent the depressed, the lost, the young — the ones really trying to figure this **** out.

Pause yourself if you need to cuss, but I swear it’s not a curse to feel
like **** sometimes. It just means in that moment, you’re not feeling so clean. Not broken — just not fitting the costume.

Sometimes you just need one reason — just one — to feel like
yourself again. Not a version of you tailored to fit in. And that’s why
it suits me better not to force anything. So yeah, I wear shorts to
church — because life is too short, and I don’t see the point in
dressing up pain to make it feel prettier. Especially when it’s always
some casual man speaking formal hopes, trying to iron your sadness
into something presentable. As if comfort should only come with a
collar.

But I’m not here for that. I’m just here trying to feel real —
and maybe make peace with the parts of me that still feel unseen.

Quick to fold into myself — these are the cards I’m keen to hold.
I’m playing the game of life, love, and growing old.

“Here are your cards, son.” But no one taught you how to play.
No rulebook, no dealer’s grace — just silence and a seat at the table.
So it’s up to you to figure it out, Kassan — learning to deal with
regret while life deals you more hands of hardship to accept.

Go on — place your bet. Will you find success? Will you chase the
dream? Will you even get a shot at love when every reason still
shoots you down? And would you risk it — even after every loss
you can count, forgetting how many wins you once held close?

You deal with the hand you’re given. But even the purest heart holds
the dirtiest intentions — so by extension, you might be playing
with a ***** hand. Still, we all play into this game we call life. It’s a
poker bet, a Crazy Eight, where you don’t even get to declare.
So you study the faces life deals you and wear a poker face to keep
your tells in check.

Don’t count your gains too early. Take them home to count —
slowly, privately. Don’t get robbed by the table just for showing
what you’ve earned. And the casino only closes when you leave.
The lights stay loud and lovely from across the street, but there
are no clocks inside. So you better watch your step.

Because despite how it looks, this life smiles, knowing **** well
it’s not a friendly game.

Her Plan A was simple —

Don’t have kids too young, so she invested
everything into Plan B: watching her step,
protecting her peace, staying ahead of
what the world might expect of her.
That was always her plan, see.

...not willing to risk it all for Plan D.

She’s still out here hoping this one
might be the one to drop down on one knee —
and not just another one wanting her on
her knees. So tired of bruised knees;
from praying to God for someone real,
while a man’s bruised ego is the only thing
she’s expected to heal.

...she just wants to be free.

My thoughts stagger, trying to carry hopes heavy as heartbeats.
Two lovers, chest to chest, whispering, “let’s talk soul to soul,”
trying to make sense of a love story that hasn’t been written yet
—a heart-to-heart moment, I keep dreaming of.

I tell myself: stay focused. But I’ve been tiptoeing through
daydreams, because chasing love too fast leaves you breathless
when it runs the other way. Cos everyone wants the highs of love,
but no one talks about the problems on the down low — the quiet
exits, the silent tears, the way loneliness can sneak in even when
someone’s lying right beside you.

Maybe it’s a late-night phone call — a sleepy “goodnight, baby”
before the line cuts out. Or a “good morning” text just to fold into
my memory like a note tucked beneath my pillow. Maybe it’s
wanting to tell you everything — not just the good, but the messy
middle parts too. Like you’re both my friend and my fire. Like you’re
the one who fits the empty spaces between the soft notes of this wild
birdsong my thoughts keep singing.

I want that kind of love. But I know relationships get complicated.
And honestly, I don’t miss perfect — I miss partnership. I miss
the “we got this” when life gets heavy, the “I’m here,” even when
we don’t have the answers. It’s not a complicated thing — just
someone to solve life with me. To laugh when things crack. To stay
when the flaws start showing.

I want skin I can breathe in — not just touch. Someone who sees
my silence as depth, not distance. Who holds my flaws like fragile
truths, not defects to be fixed.

But maybe that’s too much to ask. Maybe that kind of love only exists
somewhere between sleep and memory. I’m awake now — and I
don’t want to fall too deep just to find the woman of my dreams.

When is “enough” enough?
When doing too much ≠ enough. It falls somewhere
between “you care too much” + “you’re not doing a thing.”
If I say it with the sharpness of heart, it still lands blunt.
And I don’t want to come off like I’m doing a stunt
or overstaying my welcome.

But what is enough when doing nothing
starts to look like too much? —You ever feel like
the *** on the street —living on love that isn’t
concrete? Built on hope, but the cons increase.
They say it’s home, but the rent’s called unease.

Is there a way to multitask love —
a multiple of itself in a multiplied path?
A multitude of love in a multiverse math…
but it never really adds. Because it subtracts —
you. The more you give out ÷ the less you get back.
Yeah, it’s a trap. When you’re solving for X
but losing Y. Then you carry the one, but forget the why.
—
So I ask again: When is enough enough?
When devotion is debt, and love's just a sum
of what’s left. It’s never enough. But it’s always
too much. A pointless cost we still call Love.