he plays games.

My ass stood at the edge of cradle like a baby rocking in precarious human black leather sling, hearing the lecture like hot piss in Texas in August saying drink it cuz this is as good as it gets. It would’ve been worse, if I would’ve chased door one. I wanted to scream at him that he was lying. He had no idea how to talk to me and I knew after that night we would never speak to me anymore. The hazel crossed-eyed handyman and his abandoned affirmed dream that a niggard boy like me only fits in that world that hangs on his wall. I smiled, still fighting for my happy-ending, still holding on.


I told him I didn’t invent the game, just perfected, and gave it a soul. What if I told you there is a game? And he would say he don’t play games. But what is the real definition of a game albeit rivalry for acceptance, rewards, glory and memory. The sperm leaves the dick for the race to fertilize the egg, & out of millions most time only one will see life. That’s the fucking game. Love is the fucking game. Acceptance is the fucking game. Niggard you still on the bench. You made cuz I didn’t play you game or beat you at your game. The gamble is different from the game. A gamble is poor self-esteem depending on luck to decide its future. Niggard, I am an athlete. I wake up to play this shit. And niggard, when I win, cuz I’m going to win, you will respect my game. The game is practicing for struggled talent to be victorious.