A promise of sunsets
a dream that came true
and all of the wishes
I caught here for you
my first born, my cherub
my blue-eyed child
I sought out your name
from the wet and the wild

Be free mommy's faery
don't forget who you are
you're as precious and rare
as a gold shooting star
and when people wonder
about what I called you
tell them you're as tranquil
as Kariba is blue.

The missed chances,— you and I are the same,
still like misplaced socks, I haven't found
my match. Equal the amount of the days
I start to swallow novacane
I'll still pick up the roses that turn into diamonds,
demanding the worth of a beautiful love.
Betting on the odds with every card on the table,
my eyes feel ****** for loving you, while their
tears are blocked like the Kariba Dam.

There's no truth to recognise, with two lovers
completely blind
Landlocked, never to drown away enough in
our own emotions, with nothing much to sea.
Would you believe me or not,— depends on our
bad religions, putting faith in the words we hardly heard.
"I love you my son, I love you my daughter,
   I love you my sister  I love you my brother"

Every thought of love is televised, and we've been
ill-advised. Our daughters and sons shouldn't learn
from us,— from boys who write about *** and love
And girls who read into them, and give away the
innocence in between their thighs.

       The truth with ourselves is absolute...

Oh, to give a dam—much like a lake, its waters
held back, silence breaking my spine. All of my
worries are so high; walled off like Kariba—
****; the young grow old faster than you
can say the word— telling jokes, but even
a straight path smiles with crooked teeth.

Hope laughs at itself, when it forgets to believe.
And what’s one more injury in a whole lifetime,
lest you hang yourself with the very lifeline
you cling to.

0808 4116 is the helpline; but on an island
of despairs, what becomes of a landline—
when your thoughts are rigged like landmines,
waiting for the wrong step to set them off.

Watch your step. Hope lives in an arena, fighting
to be heard through the noise. And anything worth
holding onto is something worth bleeding for—
But it will demand you take your licks, like a kitten
burning through lives, losing a few before it learns
what survival really is.

So don’t litter your worth on the ground.
Guard it. Nurture it. As a mother cat does
her litter— fragile, trembling, but alive.