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"jumpshot" poems
All my life I had to fight A reference from a movie But when you win the fight the loser always tries to shoot me Momma taught me to do right No need for a gunshot To get away from the cold streets I developed a jumpshot But the thing is this road traveled greatly Taught myself how to shoot but without dribbling I traveled greatly No indoor courts forced to practice in the cold In another neighborhood my actions rather bold All that practicing in the rain made my skills so good Until they rolled up with intentions that were no good They asked me who I was and why I was on their block I tried to ignore but out their coat it was a glock Here I am in mid jumpshot The next thing I heard was one gunshot I'm hit, shot in the back on the leg Thinking I was dead Thanking god for not being shot in the head They thought I was dead too so they up and left And I'm laying trying to breathe panicing and ******* breath How was I suppose to ball with a hole in my leg All I could think about was the day before How coach told me I would start and how he wanted me to score But a bullet wound forced me to sit out Didn't want to play professional just wanted to get out
0
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 12:05 PM UTC
kirk-newman
jumpshots and gunshots
All my life I had to fight A reference from a movie But when you win the fight the loser always tries to shoot me Momma taught me to do right No need for a gunshot To get away from the cold streets I developed a jumpshot But the thing is this road traveled greatly Taught myself how to shoot but without dribbling I traveled greatly No indoor courts forced to practice in the cold In another neighborhood my actions rather bold All that practicing in the rain made my skills so good Until they rolled up with intentions that were no good They asked me who I was and why I was on their block I tried to ignore but out their coat it was a glock Here I am in mid jumpshot The next thing I heard was one gunshot I'm hit, shot in the back on the leg Thinking I was dead Thanking god for not being shot in the head They thought I was dead too so they up and left And I'm laying trying to breathe panicing and ******* breath How was I suppose to ball with a hole in my leg All I could think about was the day before How coach told me I would start and how he wanted me to score But a bullet wound forced me to sit out Didn't want to play professional just wanted to get out
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hey, not bad kid. you been practicing that? learning all the tricks, figuring out the secrets, putting in the hours, working hard, doing what you live for? I can tell, and someday, they'll put your name up in the big flashing neon lights, you'll be a superstar, they'll all love you then, they'll watch you intently, gazes fixed and eyes widened. then you can show them all about your skill, your technique, more flawless than the thoughtless fingers of a master guitarist as they dance and flutter over the fretboard. because you-- you have ideas that nobody else has ever thought. you've got it down! you can make it float in the air like a leaf, wiggle like a worm wriggling in the mud, swim like a slow-motion-astronaut jumping on the moon, quiver and flip over like a struggling fish on the deck of a boat, spin like a top, even sprint across the finish line like a breathless runner. but none of that, kid, is worth **** unless you can make it sing. and i mean fly like a falcon, effortlessly though the air, soaring, beautiful, mesmerizing. you have to cram it all, every emotion, thought, every piece of piece of this puzzle that is existence, and jam into one note, one step, one jumpshot, one stroke of your magic paintbrush only you can use, and then, maybe, somebody will notice you. so keep trying kid; you never had a choice.
0
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 4:57 PM UTC
jack-singer
making It
hey, not bad kid. you been practicing that? learning all the tricks, figuring out the secrets, putting in the hours, working hard, doing what you live for? I can tell, and someday, they'll put your name up in the big flashing neon lights, you'll be a superstar, they'll all love you then, they'll watch you intently, gazes fixed and eyes widened. then you can show them all about your skill, your technique, more flawless than the thoughtless fingers of a master guitarist as they dance and flutter over the fretboard. because you-- you have ideas that nobody else has ever thought. you've got it down! you can make it float in the air like a leaf, wiggle like a worm wriggling in the mud, swim like a slow-motion-astronaut jumping on the moon, quiver and flip over like a struggling fish on the deck of a boat, spin like a top, even sprint across the finish line like a breathless runner. but none of that, kid, is worth **** unless you can make it sing. and i mean fly like a falcon, effortlessly though the air, soaring, beautiful, mesmerizing. you have to cram it all, every emotion, thought, every piece of piece of this puzzle that is existence, and jam into one note, one step, one jumpshot, one stroke of your magic paintbrush only you can use, and then, maybe, somebody will notice you. so keep trying kid; you never had a choice.
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