Words are weapons

Poetry

Pen to paper his words make this man a lyrical saviour.
Phrases tight and concise, watch them taper into nothin’ but vapour.
Smoke and ashes… they’re like fallout clouds.
Watch him take a topic mighty proud and smash it.
And the way he weaves his syllables is… oh so cool, it’s fantastic.
Fans hang on his schemes like the Pied Piper leading rats upstream, they’re ecstatic.
Cos he’s match fit and fights on multiple fronts like a midfield general.
Spittin’ his ink extreme like the king of the sea.
His wordplay weaves around you like octopus tentacles.
So don’t anger him.
Or he’ll have you stumbling like a drunk that’s just learnt how to invent a fall.
You’ll clam up, forgetting rebuttals like you’ve gone and hit a wall.
Waiting your whole life to face him then choke and miss the call.
But don’t be miserable… when you’re clearly bound to fall, facing this devious wordsmith.
The speed at which he constructs his rhymes will have you baffled at times trying to decipher his verses.

And your fear, to him, is palpable.
So you play it cool, but it’s obvious to all your nervousness.
Maybe you should be more merciless, but you’re real scared.
One slip and you’ll be saying your final prayers.
Crying like a sucker come last at musical chairs.
Like a spouse playing house, caught in the middle of a sordid affair.
But who knows, maybe you’ll prevail.
You’ve been locked away for days now.
Penning a slow flow in your poetic jail.
Sweating devine rhymes, taking your time and all that entails.
Trying to act tough, but what you do is never enough.
And you just come across as pathetic and frail.
Cos right now… you’re real stale.
And all this does is make you feel pale.
But in battle you’ll get wasted.
That pasty face becoming your betrayal.
And the mountain you gotta climb to beat your nemesis, does not seem one you can easily scale.
Destiny, it would seem, would like you to fail.

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