What is this body but stone, frozen; I think of cotton candy clouds above this roof of no escape.
The front door looks worse where grubby hands opened it up wide like blooming spring flowers pushing against spores of pollution, and I wait for a space I can run to.
Still, my eyes focus but the walls are closing in, and I feel helpless, lost in time somewhere in a world where perhaps I should have remained.
The windows reflect from the shadows walking past and I want to call out but simply cannot.
I’m thinking about the terror I might glimpse etched on faces with and without masks.
They breathe like dragons ascending into skies of sweat and tears.
So help me!
I want a part of my body to remain whole: living for the day when the wind of change bites back and tells the world to shut up.
Breathing out happiness, one day to the next, and the next. I want the world to move on with me.
I am fed up feeling on the outside of a wall where distant vocalizations appear to engage my thinking but never see my loneliness.
The problem is I like time on my own too yet will always chat away with others just like me: are they like me? They walk the same way as me unaccompanied and I’ll say hello to them, just sometimes to let them know they are not alone.
I wait for the ageism lobbyists to turn a new corner and embrace my vitality and mad sense of dress. I wait for the banjo to play allowing me to sing my song.
I don’t really fit in anyway because people are scared to get involved with somebody like me. I am a kind person made from a hard past like an outer skeleton made to house a hermit crab that occasionally scuttles off to hide as I must be so frightening to look at. There will always be STIGMA attached to certain people and groups, whether they ink themselves with wounded words or dress not as a mother but as a person.
I am a loving mother though and who are they to judge me on a gossiped-about past?

I love life and nature and I like to reach out to the underdog. I want to hang out with people that won’t judge me unfairly. I would love the same chances as everybody else without STIGMA.


It was a year I needed to forget
the one where everything changed time, and time again.
Yet, with some little glimmer of hope
just like the flame that flickers forward,
I waited.
Where did I bury my thoughts
of pain?
But in dust, free from spreading,
free to breathe out
Unlike isolation: one terror-infused pit, that is not wanted
nor needed by the aged
or the lost where one world, unsure
Left hanging like fragile boughs.
And so I prayed
then some more
where sweet singing rang out in
Joyful echo.


We are lost sometimes to where we all go
who knows, as souls that spread out far-reaching and never-ending across dimensions of an open sky, lit up like the many fireflies twinkling like diamond stars taking us to new worlds. I hope for peace and longevity touching rainbows entwined in luster green boughs in the hedgerows where the finches sing out.
To feel is to communicate with wings unfurled gliding through a rich canopy of sweet aroma and song.
To sail across oceans only to be guided through a heavy storm and then taken to the shoreline where sand particles blow a kiss of hope
and I am home.
Queen Of The Beautiful Flowers

Tania is an Indonesian student writer with a scattered mind full of “what if”(s). What if she gets out of this tiny town? What if she becomes an author? What if she doesn’t? What if her stories are not good enough? What if it is good enough? What if she stops thinking of “what if”(s)?