I spent the last few games thinking, and while I reflected,
I accepted,
that half of the calls on the court, they were too subjective.
The refs kept blowing the whistle, but the pain was selective.
One minute I'm fine, then the next, I'm deceptive.
They talk about my dominance, but what if it's all defective?
Flopping my way to the line, I’m the king of the fall,
But when I’m hurt, they act like I’m just faking it all.

They said I was soft, said my game was a joke,
But when I turn it up, they act like I’m broke.
They wanna see me fall, trip, and writhe in pain,
But when I stand tall, it's the truth they can't contain.
They talk about the MVP, the accolades, the fame,
But can they handle the weight of my game, or just my name?

Every season, a new injury, another limping excuse,
But I keep coming back, no matter the abuse.
I rise from the floor, I’m always on the grind,
But the media keeps hoping I fall behind.

They hate on my journey, they hate on my strife,
They hate on the way I play with my life.
But when it’s game time, they all start to mention
The guy who keeps limping, but never stops his ascension.

When it’s all said and done, when they hand me the crown,
They’ll remember the pain, but forget how I shut it down.
Flops and bruises? A part of my section,
The only competition? The man in my reflection.

>Emflop