Rythm & Grind

I sat at my desk, the glow of my laptop screen illuminating the darkness of my room. The weight of the night before still lingered—every bruise on my body a reminder that I had lost. But I wasn't going to stay down.

I grabbed my headphones, placing them on and turning the volume up. The low hum of the beat filled my ears as I opened the music software on my laptop. I had to do something.

The anger, the frustration, the humiliation—it all swirled inside me. I could feel the words coming together in my mind. My hands were already moving, typing out lyrics with a fury that only came from feeling like you had something to prove.

I took a deep breath and hit play on the beat. The smooth, dark bass rattled through my headphones. This was the sound I needed—something aggressive but clean. Something that would hit hard. Just like Blaze had hit me.

The beat dropped, and the words came pouring out.

"You think you tough, but you ain't really got it, Blaze,

Thought you ran the game, but you're stuck in a maze.

I'm the future, boy, you just a flash in the past,

Tryna throw punches, but your skills never last."

I nodded along as I wrote, each line flowing easier than the last. I could feel the rhythm of the words, the way they cut through the beat. I wasn't just throwing random words together—I was taking everything I felt, every bit of anger and doubt, and turning it into something powerful.

"I ain't scared of your crew, man, they just bark,

You a little dog in a world full of sharks.

I don't need no backup, I'll stand on my own,

You had your chance, now I'm taking the throne."

I paused.

For the first time in a while, I felt a rush of confidence. This track was going to be fire. Blaze was about to get a dose of his own medicine.

I replayed the beat again, getting into the flow. I could see it all—the stage, the crowd, their faces when they heard this. They would hear the raw emotion in my voice. They'd feel the heat.

I wasn't going to let Blaze's crew define me. I wasn't going to let his cheap shots or his followers hold me back.

The words came faster now, more intense.

"You ain't even worthy of the mic in my hand,

Your whole style weak, don't understand.

Tryna take me down, but you can't break me,

I'm rising to the top, no one can stop me."

I leaned back in my chair, replaying the verse. It sounded good, but something was missing. The flow needed to hit harder. It needed more sting.

I stood up, pacing around the room as the beat continued to loop. The more I listened, the clearer it became. I needed to take this track further—make it personal. Make it so Blaze couldn't ignore it.

I grabbed my notebook and flipped to a blank page, scribbling down more lines. More insults, more punches. I wasn't just rapping about him anymore—I was talking about the whole scene, the people who had doubted me, the people who thought they could just walk over me.

"You ain't a king, you a jester with a crown,

I'll flip the script, turn your whole world upside down.

You thought I was nothing, just a joke in the crowd,

But now I'm spitting fire and I'm standing so proud."

I laughed under my breath. This was it. This was what I needed. The message was clear. Blaze wasn't just some rival now—he was the target of everything I had.

I sat back down at my desk and hit record. The beat kicked in again. My heart raced. The flow was smoother now, more confident, like I was born to do this. Every word that came out of my mouth felt like a punch to Blaze's ego.

"I'm the one who's coming up, you just in my way,

Better pray, better pray you don't catch me today.

Your throne's been taken, and I'm rising above,

This the diss track of the year, better show me some love."

I finished the last line, letting it hang in the air for a moment. The silence in my room felt thick, like the weight of everything had finally been lifted. My chest was tight, but my mind was clearer than ever.

I leaned back in my chair, letting the beat fade out. I had just made a statement.

This wasn't just a rap battle anymore. This was my declaration. Blaze was not going to get the last word.

I hit play one last time to listen to the track from the beginning. The beats, the lyrics—they were solid. The flow? Flawless.

The anger that had been building up inside me was now channeled into something real, something I could use. Something that would prove I wasn't just some kid off the street—I was someone who belonged in this game.

I leaned over to my mic and recorded a quick intro, something to give it a little more edge.

"Yo, this one's for Blaze. Hope you're listening, 'cause I ain't done.

I'm coming for you, and I'm bringing the heat.

Better watch your throne, 'cause it's mine now."

I finished the recording and hit stop, taking a deep breath. My heart was still racing, but there was a sense of pride in me now. Blaze had messed with the wrong person.

"I'm not just here to rap," I said aloud to myself, my voice steady. "I'm here to take over."

I opened my phone and pulled up the message thread with my friend, Rico. He'd been the one to get me into the scene. The one who knew all the right people.

I attached the track, hit send, and leaned back in my chair.

The ball was in Blaze's court now. And he was going to get a taste of his own medicine.

I sat back in my chair, staring at the screen for a moment, letting the adrenaline settle. The track was finished. My anger, my frustration, and my hunger for revenge—it was all in there.

But something nagged at me.

I knew I had the right vibe, the right energy, but I also knew that this wasn't just about throwing words together and calling it a diss. I needed to make sure that when Blaze heard this, it hit him like a freight train. It needed to be sharp. Clever. Something he wouldn't be able to just brush off.

I opened up a new tab in my browser and quickly searched for some of the best diss tracks out there. I needed to study the masters, the ones who made their words cut deep. I wasn't just aiming to hurt Blaze's pride—I was aiming to tear it down completely.

I started with the classics—Eminem's "The Warning," the venomous lines in Drake's "Back to Back," and even a few underground diss tracks that had a raw, gritty feel to them. I knew the basics of rapping, but diss tracks were a whole different game. They weren't about your usual punchlines. They were about taking your enemy down with style.

I clicked play on Eminem's "The Warning" first. The beat was simple, but it hit hard—just like his words. I listened closely, taking notes as Em tore apart his rival with clever metaphors, subtle jabs, and brutally honest insults.

"You don't wanna f* with Shady,

Why?

'Cause Shady will f*ing kill you."

The way he built tension, making sure every line had weight, every word served a purpose—it was flawless. His disses weren't just about the insults; they were about the way he played with the opponent's weaknesses. I needed that in my own track.

I jotted down a few notes in my notebook: "Target their ego—never just aim at their flaws. Aim at their reputation."

Next, I pulled up Drake's "Back to Back." This one was special because not only did it have a playful, cocky tone, but it was filled with clever, cutting lines that stuck with you long after you heard them. He wasn't just attacking Meek Mill—he was mocking him, making it seem like he wasn't worth Drake's time. And yet, the disses were delivered so smoothly.

I listened to the opening bars again, taking note of how he layered in humor without losing the sting of his words:

"Is that a world tour or your girl's tour?

I know that you gotta be a thug for her."

It was the perfect blend of confidence and mockery—something I could use for Blaze. Blaze thought he was untouchable. He thought he was the king of this city. Maybe it was time to remind him just how easily a self-proclaimed king could be dethroned.

I wrote down: "Play the role of the cocky underdog—make the audience laugh at them, then hit them with the punch."

The last track I clicked on was an underground diss track I had stumbled across a few months ago. It wasn't as famous as the other two, but it had a rawness that felt real. The artist didn't hold back. Every bar was pure rage, but it was done with a poetic fluidity that made it stand out.

I loved the way the rapper used repetition to hammer in the point:

"You ain't no threat, you ain't even close,

I'm a lion, you're just a ghost."

The repetition didn't make it sound lazy, though. It made it feel like the words were echoing, like the diss would haunt the person it was aimed at. The simplicity of it was powerful. I could almost hear Blaze's face cracking when he heard that line.

I wrote in my notebook again: "Keep it direct, but don't overcomplicate it. Repetition makes it stick."

I leaned back in my chair and closed the tabs, thinking about the tracks I'd just studied. I'd learned something new from each of them. I had the energy, the anger, but now I had the technique too. This wasn't going to be just any diss—it was going to be something that would linger in Blaze's mind. Something that would haunt him.

I grabbed my pen and opened my notebook, scribbling down a few more lines. This was going to be the killshot.

"You thought you were safe, you thought you were king,

But your throne's made of paper and I'm here to bring the flame.

You a shadow in the game, watch me rise above,

I'm the storm you never saw coming, Blaze—run for cover."

I added some extra wordplay, making sure the flow was smooth, while still packing in the punches I'd learned from the diss tracks I studied. I needed to hit him hard—no mercy.

I stood up, pacing the room as I ran through the lyrics in my head. This was it. Blaze had taken his shot, and now it was my turn. This track wasn't just about revenge—it was about ownership. It was about claiming my spot in this city.

I was done playing the underdog. The time to rise was now.

I grabbed my phone, opened the message thread with Rico again, and attached the new track. The words flowed out of me as I typed a quick message:

"This is it. Blaze won't know what hit him."

I hit send.

The track was ready. Blaze was about to feel the full force of my comeback.