In Africa, _“empty”_ means a glass bottle for deposit.
In my place, empty is the feeling in my heart made of glass.
Empty is my soul searching for something to deposit,
something to believe in beyond what’s missing.
Empty are my prayers that rise, but never land —
echoes sent to a heaven, but on silent mode.
Empty is my credit card trying to buy into something,
to belong, to matter, to afford the illusion of enough.
Empty is what poverty seems to fill me with, ironically —
the kind of fullness that starves.
Empty is what Africa seems to make a lot of dreams feel
like; big visions bottled and left beneath the sun to fade.
Empty are the potholes, the roads that once dreamed of
being whole, filled with yesterday’s rain, tomorrow’s silence.
Empty is my hand without a ring, yet bound to too many
hearts, giving my love to those who only love being loved.
Empty is a love of you and I already in collusion; accidental
love, where our hearts trade promises like borrowed coins.
Empty are the plans we toast to with no means to chase,
all the smiles we wear when the truth’s too heavy to carry.
Empty could mean a lot of things to you and me, but empty
in Africa, means a glass bottle for deposit — and our tears
are what made the payment.
Nov 11, 2025
Nov 11, 2025 at 9:08 PM UTC
In Africa, _“empty”_ means a glass bottle for deposit.
In my place, empty is the feeling in my heart made of glass.
Empty is my soul searching for something to deposit,
something to believe in beyond what’s missing.
Empty are my prayers that rise, but never land —
echoes sent to a heaven, but on silent mode.
Empty is my credit card trying to buy into something,
to belong, to matter, to afford the illusion of enough.
Empty is what poverty seems to fill me with, ironically —
the kind of fullness that starves.
Empty is what Africa seems to make a lot of dreams feel
like; big visions bottled and left beneath the sun to fade.
Empty are the potholes, the roads that once dreamed of
being whole, filled with yesterday’s rain, tomorrow’s silence.
Empty is my hand without a ring, yet bound to too many
hearts, giving my love to those who only love being loved.
Empty is a love of you and I already in collusion; accidental
love, where our hearts trade promises like borrowed coins.
Empty are the plans we toast to with no means to chase,
all the smiles we wear when the truth’s too heavy to carry.
Empty could mean a lot of things to you and me, but empty
in Africa, means a glass bottle for deposit — and our tears
are what made the payment.
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