I asked the earth in one sunny day,
“Can you tell me which path should be my way?”
The earth smiled at me, but said nothing,
Then left me alone, wondering.

I asked a star in the sky,
“Please tell me the path that can give me the light.
The star smiled at me, but said nothing.
And just like the earth,
It left me alone, questioning.

I walked around thousand forests
and searched for the magic words to reveal the path,
But the magic words were hidden behind the stone,
I was again completely left alone.

I don’t know why my questions were not answered,
I don't see why the magic words were hidden behind the stone,
I just start feeling shattered,
For there’s no way out to be shown.

Later in the mirror, I saw the shadow of a child
With a lantern in her hand
That shines brighter than the sun
“Do you want to know the answer?” asked the child
“Yes!” I answered like a sailor miss his homeland
“Come with me, then. It will be fun!”

Then, I go with the child with a lantern in her hand
That shines brighter than the sun,
Taking journey with unexplainable end.

“Who are you?” After a mile I asked the child
"Who do you think I am?"
"A shadow of angel?"
“No. I’m curiosity.
Curiosity is like a child who never stop learning about how to live without fear, even though the life gives you so many scars.
Curiosity is like a child who always thinks that the world will always be the fun place to live.
Curiosity never complains about the unfair world.  
With all the qualities, curiosity is the only thing that can lead you to the path you want.
I’m curiosity. I'm the shadow of you.
I’m in you, waiting to be dug.
Because finding the path you want is actually a matter of how curious you are in digging all the treasures.
It is only you who can do it.
No one else. Nothing else,” the child answered.

Then, I take the lantern
from the child's hand;
the lantern that shines brighter than the sun,
and start walking on the path I want…

-Kanya Puspokusumo, 2017
http://doeniadevi.wordpress.com

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless ***. I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.

I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.

But you,
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.