Battle of the two Giants
High noon announced the duel of the giants
Poetry and Hip Hop gunslinging the date was set
One accused the other of ****** the verbal world
As poetry sighted the words of Poe, hip hop did hurl
"Cant you rock these lame %$# words in slow
That dumb %&# Raven needs to be defeathered bro"
Poetry stood back and shook his hands down low
Reaching for his quilt using hip hop as ink he wrote
"The sound of silence is gold when you release your soul,
I need to feel the heartbeat of man so go!"
Hip hop now breakdancing on the floor
Laughed at this poor attempt to show poetrys gold
"You call that soul? I see it as a blind man,
Using fancy words to hide your fears so grand"
As poetry began to write another line
12:00 o clock came up as the sun did shine
Both stood back to back drawing their weapons
As the countdown to the duel approached like a new son
3 steps forward both rhymers turned about face
Two bangs later the smoke cleared both were embraced
The two giants knelt to ground their hearts did bleed
This time not of words but of blood so clean
At the same time both died as they killed each other
Why not write about how we are killing one another
Black vs White, hip hop vs poetry
Same old siht but this time its affecting me

Daystar you are too faraway
From my space
Stir up your stellar core
And with a magnetic shift
Bypass the laws of Universe
And come closer to my heat
To give me a lift of spirit
You are not deaf, nor dumb, nor mute
Contrary to unpoetic attitude
Pay heed to a creature of your dust
To my unwavering trust
In your revolutionary engine
I empathize with your concerns
Of descending the cosmic ladder
When your rays may stunt matter
Or leaving your galaxy in a tide
Where other stars may go wild
Or flat out incinerate our joints
Which form euphoric feelings
Appreciating your altitude
But if you do a magic trick
Displacing the Space with a kick
Easing the Time with a wink
You be in my vicinity
And I can breathe your air of divinity
Then together we shall impress
The fixed flocks of Universe
With your range of wondrous powers
And my share of creative hours
We will transform your System
Into a celestial Dance Hall
Where Mercury and Venus
Be breakdancing
Earth and Moon be waltzing
Jupiter and Mars shall tango
Saturn and Uranus would mambo
Pluto and Neptune be tap dancing
My beloved Sun do you think
I'm overly imaginative
Or just plumb crazy
Let me know
By sending a ray of fancy kiss
Or a ray of fiery blessing.

Since childhood, I had a complex—my legs.
Even though I ran through the neighborhood,
through the techno district, the park, and Chekhov’s little house,
through the abandoned dairy factory,
climbed over the fence into the Fairy Tale Glade,
held my own in a game of tag,
I could change direction in an instant,
unexpectedly for whoever was chasing me.
Reaching out my hand, I’d glide away.

But that never stopped people from saying,
“God, you’re so skinny. Look at those legs.”
I hated summer—
not because of the heat, but because of the shorts.
Summer meant the boat beach, the green zone.
I could dive like a coffin, like a bomb,
sending up decent splashes.
The entrance near the boat station cost 3 hryvnias,
yet the local spot was free.
And there was a café nearby with music.
I remember they played The Doors.

I was 22, and I lived with those who didn’t love me.
I twisted the same ankle 4 times in 6 months.
December 21, 2012.
I tore my ligaments.
End of the world.

I had only started breakdancing a couple of months before,
had just learned the splits.
And then—on the snow, I nailed it.
The guys carried me under their arms.

I twisted my left ankle four times
because I wasn’t listening to it.
I was supposed to run—
but I turned back.

The fourth time was the scariest—
on flat ground, for no reason.
I thought I’d broken it.
The pain was endless.
Night. Emptiness.
The first trolleybus.
I barely made it,
leaning on a stick for support.

“Conductor, sorry, I have no money. Just one stop.”
“****, man.”

But everything healed.
It didn’t hurt anymore.
I never went to a doctor.

I kept twisting my ankle,
even on even ground.
I kept going.
In the end, everything hurt.
I felt broken—
then put back together.

Maybe that’s what being a b-boy means to me.

And my legs?
They only became full
once they hit the road.