MATRIX
by: Byron C. LaFleur

As I retrospect into my memory for the source of my misery. It's becoming clear to me that Vanity has underhanded me. The fallacies of the superficial only scratching the tissue of the ghetto's social issues. The money, clothes, pretty hoes to plant seeds, weed, greed, sling caine, maintain luxury cars, make ghetto superstars, at the club buying out the bar. Everybody knows who you are. Creates Jealousy and Envy. It's funny how money can make people friendly. Smiling in your face, all the while, they want to take your place. The Backstabbers, Backstabbers! So, friendly send the timegrabbers with wire taps, and photos of your name, and face. Conspiracy case! De ja vu! Because, somehow you knew the time, and the place. But, what you didn't see, was your ace, was the snake that bit you in the face. Now, you're doing ten to twenty, which is plenty of time to re-evaluate, self motivate, and educate oneself to attain that legal wealth to maintain that clean bill of mental health. Yet, time spent with intent to practice stealth tactics on chessboards moving pieces like birds, because these birds flock together but, only in fair weather the same species with different coloration, the sport illustration of hustling street dreams of a magazine. You wouldn't buy yourself, let alone someone else like me. It's highly, unlikely I'd even pay you attention, not to mention stacks of greenbacks. You see I sit back and watch how you act. You're uncivilized, telling lies, time flies but you're not wise, so you don't use it. You'd rather eat, sleep, and bullsh*t your life away. You're hoping for the day when the C.O. will say "You have outlived your stay!" You're halfway to the house making minimum pay. But, everyday you see those ghetto superstars in fancy cars with pretty girls. Now, you reminisce about that world, and become depressed because your style of dress doesn't impress. But, you're free with no stress still you want the best. Because, being broke ain't no joke, but you're on a long rope that hasn't started to choke yet. So, you bet on your chess skills to yayo deal. You pray you don't get killed or get a bad deal. Now, you got a house on the hill paying all of your bills, behind the wheel of a car with sex appeal in the fast lane tires squeal but, so do haters. Damn! Here comes the Feds snapping at your heels like swamp gators jumping out of Navigators. Another fallen star in the back of a marshall's car. End of the game! Next player! The streets will see you Later!

Meet Author Byron C. LaFleur

 
 
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