🥀 Inside the Bottle

I was born inside a bottle.

A bottle called poverty.

It is clear enough to see hope on the other side,

but thick enough to keep me trapped.

My family pushes,

we fight with all our strength,

but the glass does not break.

It is suffocating.

It is tiring.

It feels endless.

We spend all our energy,

yet the walls hold us in.

Generations of struggle,

passed down like inheritance.

Dreams cut short,

opportunities slipping away,

as if the bottle was never meant to open.

But listen,

Even glass can crack.

Even bottles can shatter.

Even chains can break.

Every prayer, every tear, every small effort

is a strike against the walls that hold us.

The sound may be faint,

but one day the pressure will be too much.

One day the bottle will break.

And when it does,

I will not only walk out free,

I will carry others with me.

This is the voice of the poor.

This is the cry of the suffocating.

And this is the hope of the survivor:

That poverty is not destiny.

It is a prison,

and prisons can fall.