The Race

“Poetry is my life,” he said to his teenage grandson.“Rap is better.”“Oh really?” grandpa laughed, “ever wondered how your rappers would sound without the beat?”“That doesn’t matter grandpa.”“Son, it does. Your rap chooses flow over soul.”“But you can’t freestyle,” the teenager said.“You think so? Try me.”“Freestyle about,” the teenager thought for a while, “a race!”Grandpa cleared his throat.

“They say life is a race,” grandpa began, “like, running a course. Running from or for something. Running from poverty, or giving the bank a run for its money,” he smiled at the young manOr a run to the moneyRunning so as to have a good run of moneyMan running the rat race for moneyMan to ratWhat amazing feat of biology!

They say life is a raceLike running for officeRunning to run or run down the officeOr running a cause to save the run down of the officeLike, running your mouthOr maybe even gun running

They say life is a raceLike running for your lifeRunning from something that will outrun youBecause when your blood runs cold at the finishline,At the very end of your raceOnly then will you look back at the trail blazedOr the already blazed trails you racedOnly then will you see the times you were running of courseOf course, its human to run of courseBut then it hurts to seeLike the times you were running in circlesAnd then you’ll see that its every man to his raceEvery race to its finishline

And maybeJust maybeYou’ll realise the human race,” grandpa paused for a few moments, “is not a race after all,” he exhaled.“Give me more grandpa. More.”