2k and Food. A Young Man’s Poem. 

I just want to play 2K and eat my food. 

I don’t know how you woke up in one of your moods. 

You upset that I’m not swaddling you while nude, so me sitting on the edge of the bed tapping the controller induces an attitude? 

“Malcolm you so fucking rude.” 

I just missed the game winning shot against Steph Curry in OT, so you damn right I had the right to scream at the screen. 

See growing up my jumper was broke, so I watched a lot of DragonBall Z. Then I hit my growth spurt, got on the field and played some HB like Barry and LB, like LT. 

That was for the fellas, gentlemen do me a favor and explain what I mean to your, ladies. 

I never got to dunk on a nigga from the free or step back and hit a corner 3 on national TV, so through Lebron James and this Xbox one, I live vicariously.

I don’t understand how I can sit through Scandal and The Office and allow you to be free, but the second the TV turns green and that logo shoots across the screen, you got a problem with me. 

Do you even remember how you got put to sleep? Cause an hour ago I was pounding that pussy, hitting my pinnacle with such vitality that you would think I’m impervious to fatigue. 

Now you awake and I gotta mute my mic so the homies won’t hear me fussing because suddenly you want to argue with me! 

But I’m the one that’s rude. 

Why don’t you Reach over on the nightstand, cause I got you some pizza, just the way you like it, and by now it should be cooled. 

Please do me a favor and just let me be, cause I need some time for me, and contrary to popular belief my whole life doesn’t consist of catering to you…

So, Lay back, text your Homegirl and call me crude. Tell her how you wouldn’t get treated like this by some other dude. Make up a whole fuss and let her feel some of that attitude. Vent, roll your eyes, and sigh until your lungs need fuel..

As long as you shut the fuck up, let me play 2K, and eat my food. 

International Malcolm

The Friday Night Company. 2016. 

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