by Corey T. Williams

You don't know pressure
Like I know pressure
Your clothes matted together
Ticking seconds
Seem forever.
Imagine if you will
Run for life
Just be killed
By someone
Of ill will
Couldn't pay up
Your  losing deal.
Heart beats
Cold beads of sweat
Promises you beget
Easy words
You now regret
The streets
They don't forget.

Started hustlin on the stoop
With your boys Reece and Scoop
Early card games
Bettin quarters
Playing spades
To bettin dollars.
Learned to roll that dice
By a cat they called
Black Ice
The type to slice and dice
If your actions weren't precise.
You four become a team
Divide and conquer
For the green
Reece and Scoop
Provide the muscle
Laying wood
And knocking hustles.
Chopping throats
And bustin hearts
Notorious ghetto
Glamour stars.
Ice controls the goods
The guns and the drugs
Supplies them to the thugs
Doing dirt
Like dirty does.
Keep in mind
This is you
Bet you
Couldn't see the brew
Of animosity
And hostility
You're controlling all the money!
Your house upon the hill
The holdings in your will
The cars you often wheel
I've lived this life
For real.
Still think
That you a player?
Have money by the layers
Got a crib and an acre
Move and shakers.
Being kind of Jiggy
With your platinum tone
Baggy Marine utilities
Stolen Army capabilities.
Modern technologies
Internet standard
Two-way pagers
Your boy was in Hawaii
Sent you a message about some danger.
Think you a baller now?
Whatever you need
You got some how
>From fashion labels
Wireless cables
The latest and greatest
Was in your stable
You should have split the table
With your crew
Who ain't so able.

Snickers and whispers
>From Reece who wants a piece
Of your pie
So you try
To blind his greedy eye.
Yellow diamonds
Sexy women
Busy sinnin'
To keep from thinkin'.
Then there's Scoop
Who's in the loop
Your private records
He did the snoop.
Discovered the credit and debt
In these days
You haven't slept
Ice calls you on the phone
>From his home
The Catacombs
A tomb for the unknowns
Forgotten soldiers dead and gone.
Ain't nothing good
About his calls
A four man union
At the pool hall.
Black Mike's  on twenty-third
To watch the fight
Settle things that ain't so tight
Get down to what ain't right.
The roots of street evil
Is not sharing amongst your people
Hoarding all the money
Causing conflict that ain't funny.
Betrayals and deceptions
As a weapon
Strengthened your competition
But wrecked
Your corporation.
Grumbling amongst the clan
Questions point
To who's the man?
Who first
Thought of this plan?
Who had
The balls to take command?
Do you get all the funds?
To say you're number one?

You arrive upon the spot
The air is dusty
Kind of musty
You brought your
Gun poppers
Death seekers.
You remember
To dress in black
Like those cats
In New Jack City
Kind of gritty
Sniffing air
That smells unfriendly.
You park the Bentley
In proximity
For quick entry.
Enter the side door
By Armadore
He knows the score
Escorts you to the bank
Exchange 10 grand
You get a tank.
Thousand dollar chips
In money clips
You lick your lips
How reminiscent.
The back room
The player's room
The showdown
At high noon.
You enter
The table is dead center
Dimly lit
You smell the scent
Ice's herb
Now you're perturbed.
Play cool
Don't look disturbed
Control the twitching
Of your nerves.
Give pounds to Scoop and Reece
Get a drink
Sit in your seat.
Southern Comfort
A little coke
Get a pull on Ice's dope.
Conversation starts lightly
You begin a game of spades
No money has been laid.
An hour into the pow wow
The liquor
Does talking now
Friendly names
Become flames
Angry looks
Become the blame.
Soon games turn into poker
No more big
Or little joker
It's time for something older
Four cats no longer sober.
Curse words and hostilities
Interrupt the room's festivities
Holyfield and Tyson
On the T.V.
Now three guns
Pointing at thee.
Blurry is your vision
Take a sip of your concoction
What's going to happen
Chuckle to yourself
Why you laughin'?
You look at all three
A grin you flash
And then you dash
Caught a bullet in the ass
Before you fall
You shoot a blast.
Tore out Scoop's throat
A chrome 380 ain't no joke.
Blood trails
When Reece yells
Just traced his head.
Brain matter
Among the splatter
Four men enter
Two men shiver
You think about your life
About things done wrong
And things done right.
Your li'l girl
Just started to talk
Your li'l son
Is about to walk.
These things you ponder
Chest beat like thunder.
Adrenaline makes you act
Ice freezes on your attack
Hollow points splash his back
Tears fall
You hear bones crack.

Still think you a player
Walk a mile in my shoes
Relive my ghetto blues
Write songs about your trues.

"End of Work"
Copyright, InDBlack Publishing, 1999
**This can be a poem or short story.

Players by Corey T. Williams

© Copyright InDBlack Publishing, 1999. All rights reserved. No portion of this work may be duplicated or copied without the expressed written consent of the author.

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