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by Jabulile Mpanza




She died because I told her she was no good,

She lacks growth that cannot be nourished by any food.

She may have been what you wanted,

But time and reality is what you have taken for granted.


“She is too big for you”, sorry to be rude.

See her requirements will never align with your capabilities or skills,

Even your attempt to step up and aim for her will bring you to your heels.

“she does not make any sense” they have said,

Seal her, box her away, put up a red tape if that makes you feel better instead.

She was adequate when you were 13 and dared to imagine. Those times have gone by and so do what needs to be done to pay the bills.


Who is this I speak of the question arises,

Should I continue and inform you of her surprises?

Truth is that she exists within each of us and dies slowly, continually when we no longer make her a fuss.

She is the “used to be” that I saw as an “ought to be”, as she played in my mind, leaving me mesmerized.


I press her down because I fear what it may entail to go for her charm,

Uncertain whether her success would do any harm.

Oh, I long to see beyond before I commit,

Will I fall flat, or out of this produce my greatest hit?

I desire clarity in all, I want all waters calm.


She I know so vividly, she I want to proclaim, she I want to ignite.

She goes by Potential; some know her as Dream, if memory serves me right.

She used to encourage me to do better than best,

But just like a corpse, I laid her to rest.


I have reunited with a being that will not allow me to give up without a fight,

He is the dream giver,

Who has reminded me that within lives a sanctified diva,

His words were “I anointed you to do amazing things,

Don’t make me cut you off and wither like figs.

Unleash that powerful ocean, move away from the contaminated river.”


So he who gave has refreshed and breathed back into life, into my abstract death.

No need to drown in guilt, numbing the pain with meth.

I can, I will, because he did and does till the end.


No matter how crocked and dark the bend,

There are no telling false promises, lying on potential, lying on the dream.

There is only spreading myself across it, facing it eye-to-eye, head-to-head and anointing greater power on it, laying on potential.