Lineage of shadows

Born into a name

that carried more weight than love,

a family stitched together

by poverty, not promise.

The world whispers its verdict:

“this is your fate, your inheritance,

a curse you cannot escape.”

No choice was offered at birth,

only the quiet lessons

of what we do not have—

empty cupboards, worn shoes,

dreams that choke on the dust of yesterday.

Parents did what they could,

hands trembling with effort,

hearts full of love,

but pockets that echoed hollow.

We, their children, inherit the struggle,

as if scarcity is a birthright,

and hope a stranger at the door.

Yet inside, we feel the friction:

a fire that refuses to be silenced.

Even when the world folds us

into the shape of our lineage,

we imagine what might be,

we wrestle with possibility.

The curse is not the blood we share,

nor the walls of poverty that surround us.

The curse is forgetting

that we are more than our inheritance,

that even the longest line of shadows

cannot stop a single spark

from lighting its own path.

We are children of struggle, yes,

but also of quiet rebellion,

of dreams that refuse to bend,

of hearts that will not settle

for a fate written before we drew our first breath.