by Stefon Napier01 Aug 2013
I've been besieged by yellowed years and so my youth is growing old
The folds of which smolder in sin like mold
Rode the American roulettes till my momentum lost conscious
Insisted I could live on dreams parched and stretched thin
The apartments with grainy carpets, drained sofas like gaunted inns.
In a high pitched nuisance of lightening
They say its only a dream,
part of being crafted and then born.
If this is so,
Then why does the reality I feel seem so assassinated.