Center field

They call ya son prophet. At least, In his dreams when he speak. A nigga so precise that he can flow through the gap in ya teeth. This negro conquering all giants with nothing, but a rock and sling. Imagination run wild with a kid that’s getting no sleep. Cause sleep paralysis a thing, where his little demons a creep and watch em all night and threaten his life if he blink. He more scared then, than even when a clip would empty. At the park where he dreamed—that him and friend that they be, the next big thing balling fa the Windy City. They’d be; dunking, passing , throwing oops and draining a three. Ya know orange juice with the squeeze. But it was  far out of reach, we couldn’t find us a team. What we should’ve done was made our own to show we elite. Now I just grind my  pen n pad til  they can no longer compete Or I outlast every  baller like Lebron in his peak. But cuz still in his peak, did y’all catch what I mean?