HIM
Just when I was doing good I made it hard for you to like me. My favorite writings seem to question the psyche. There’s a lot of football heads, so it’s hard to be Nike.
I wanted to say “Hey Arnold,” but Helga Pataki is acting tacky so I’m skipping recess. I chose to stay dangerous over being scandalous. I’m what they call “over zealous.”
That comes with its share of stress.
That comes with a bulletproof vest.
My people are under duress, so it looks like I’m destined to be under arrest. Say less? I rather pay less, so what else do you suggest?
Hence why every time I touchdown I make sure to celebrate. I love the hate and sigh high when others hyperventilate. My deep breaths come from deep breadths of princely nomenclature. It looks good from afar, but below the surface it’s even better. It’s even wetter, like the third installment of a Twista series of a sexual nature. Who knew good behavior could bring so much pleasure?
“Not I” said the politician. Well that’s too bad. Add in a crooked pastor and you’ll be super bad. Yet, I’m still the baddest sho-nuff, and that makes me über glad... I don’t even have to lift a finger to secure the bag.
HER
Just as I began to like him, he tightened up. After a few weeks though, it began to ripen up. Better than fresh fruit, way sweeter than a chocolate chip. All these bees swarm around me, he calls me his honey dip.
He called it a game, made me feel like the star player and he was the head coach. But I watched my starter spot get taken, so I had to take a new approach. I fondled with the idea but in the end I dropped it like a bad habit. He jumped around faster, way quicker than a jack rabbit.
I wanted more but got less.
I gave him more but I failed the test.
I’m the winning prize, but there was no winner so I ran. The only thing I see is failure and shit hit the fan. I question too much, because I seem to get no answer. I gotta be quick and light on my toes, a better dancer.
Right in rhythm but I’m tight on time. He told me he his ten pennies still didn’t make a dime. The cost of love is what you’re willing to give, but the scars from the heartbreak cut deeper than a shiv. Is it worth it, do I give it all I got? I feel like Monica from Love and Basketball taking the last shot. Will I make it or should I pass it? Up in the air, and... swoosh, right in the basket.
And 1! The crowd goes wild, but then silence touches me. Lost in his gaze, his body brushes me. I get weak in the knees, dropping as if I’m praying. I got the bag and secured it, so what you saying?