B-Ball is a rose. Behind a court, that's locked and kept closed.
Maybe just to me, 'cos my hoops been attacked, and slam dunked by tough ballers, bad ballers.
So bought my ball off the street, true B-ball it just can't be beat, I felt so complete.
Married to heavenly Spaldur above, and each night I'd look up at a bright honey-hoop.
'Cos it sure, seemed to built to last, even after my first quarter passed.
I kept right on with it man, like a ghost in a court that looks haunted.
Day after day, I'd steal with my B-ball away. To some large court, we left undisturbed we can slam what we wanted.
But I started to feel like a bystander, sitting on the sidelines.
My B-ball was madly in love or at me, there was no net to dunk, raised my alarm.
Found, I can't make a shot, I'm her hired rookie, I have to layup.
One day I got sick, teammate played me a nasty old trick.
Said I need Spaldur balls, jogged out the court and caught a cab.
Stayed gone for too long, our roster had gotten so strong.
Just to try dribbling back on my own, I had to go into free-hab.
All I need, is safe a court to be, is this where it's at?
Half of no chance, in my B-boy stance, your life's just a ball game.
Now I'm the, King of the court, 'cos I'm good and I train my cohort.
Slam a dunk for the coach to grab me a new backboard.
Tranquil as a dove, people that have lost their B-ball love, they all seem to fit, the same uniform.
I feel slammed, useless and jammed. I wish I was no-baller.
Take me to the baseline, ball handler.
Take me backcourt today.
Take me out of this center circle.
Take me one on one today.
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Poem / Poetry
Poem / Poetry
Miscellaneous / Horror
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