Battles wasp vs Revan
RULES
No recorded, instrumentals included
Max of 29 lines
THIS BATTLE IS OVER
wasp won this battle!
2 ROUNDS
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Battle on June 30 2025
CHALLENGER'S RAP
- watch the crack in the sidewalk spread like veins under pressure
- my pen tap dance, stress fracture, measure for measure
- not a prophet, just a product of the corner store lectures
- where loose lips sink ships but im submarine quiet, catch the treasure?
- pressure cooker dreams whistle, steam vents in the verses
- every noun got a shadow twin, meaning inverted
- sun bleach the truth on brick faces, seen it fade like old denim
- my verbs hit like switchblades flipped, clean, then serrated, then venom
- this aint rhyme for the sake, its the code the concrete whispered
- when the streetlights flicker morse, lost souls delivered or disappeared
- from bricks to syllables, I build shelters, watch the weak gather
- while vultures circle metaphors, circling, but never capture the real matter
- fingerprint smudged on the pen like a burglars confession
- flow erratic, static cling, combat the obsession with perfection
- pocket full of sunken ships, junk metaphors I dunked and sunk quick
- dusty lungs cough concrete, trust none, that punch stung, huh?
- subtract the flash, add the ash from burnt bridges I traversed
- knuckle scars map the hustle, muscle memory rehearsed...
- sweat rings on collars tell tales the tongue cant utter
- grit got no expiration date, it just clumps or butters your bread
- watch the eyes when the beat drops, shutters flick like old projectors
- projectin' futures brighter than the flicker in the rectors spectra
- I aint king, just a splinter in the thumb of the game, deep embedded
- write my name in the wet cement before it sets, it gets readed
- then forgotten like yesterdays headline. or last winters frost
- but the cracks reman. the cracks remain. at all cost
DEFENDER'S RAP
- I don't write bars — I exhume echoes from cellar tones,
- Where kids learn math from dice rolls, and pain speaks in undertones.
- Each letter bleeds rust — this ain't pen, it’s crowbar truth,
- Etched in alley sermons, spit by crooked youth.
- My lines ain't clever, they tilt clocks off center,
- Time melts like Dali sketches in winter.
- No tuxedos for trauma — just raw gumline glass,
- Truth wrapped in foil, sold in plastic bags.
- I break the meter like cuffs on a restless wrist,
- Syntax twist like a deathbed wish.
- No prophecies here — just splinters and park bench sins,
- Where the silence shouts louder than the choir within.
- My pen limps — it’s been through glass and ash,
- You read in Morse code? I breathe in Braille flash.
- Each stanza’s a tombstone etched in breath,
- Every verse, a brush with death.
- I build proof, not shelters, with rusted wire verbs,
- No switchblades — just gravel words.
- Fingerprint's a smear, signed in loss,
- A hymn for the cracked, the burned, the lost.
- I ain't king — I’m the echo when the king drops cold,
- The cough in court when the silence unfolds.
- Write your name in cement — hope rain forgets.
- I write mine in ash — it spreads, infects.
- Not the headline — I’m the silence after the shot,
- The stain on the page that the story forgot.