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1. |
Revealed [Personal]
01:31
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Some consider this art,
Some poetry,
music,
a gift.
Me?
Simply saw it as a sword to battle boredom with
And It still is…
Except, I will admit,
After I felt the balls rolling on the quill-tip spillages,
In instances of thrilling kids..
I constantly consciously created/constructed
Less swill-fit more tips, pen points… out advice
That might uplift!
I insisted instilling brilliance in this with willingness
Like studious physicists, philosophers, lyricists,
Linguistics whizzes with ridiculous twists of
syllables, words synonyms, verbs,
consonants, vowels, adjectives, nouns
vocab, antonyms, symbols,
syntax to aid my adamant, .
Invention intention's impact to
Decrease foggy, sense presentation presence
Attention!
Increase phosphorescence essences essentially,
Eventually so significance will immediately
Be retrieved, they’ll find quilt prints
In your head splits
After you read this,
Thanks to my skilled spits
No more stillness in your pondering:
The ripples filled and fulfilled it
So no ill-will will bill me still
And make me shrill,
If I feel which
Is an issue if/when
they WILL flip
that kill switch
on my pilgrimage
I wont guilt-trip
Into chilled abyss
And still stress
About the still prints
And beneficial scripts
In my cryptic crypt crib on
Memory lane and how
Vain plain or arcane I’d built it.
Some consider this art,
some poetry, music, a gift...
Me? I simply saw it as a sword to battle boredom with, and it still is..
But now it's also an attempted wordsmith weapon
of wisdom to contribute worth before I withered
and leave something with them.
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2. |
Glory Lockets
03:10
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Pitter-patter patterns place the echoes in the hall
As Glory paces contemplating letting go of all that palls
This draws an image of diminished interest and pride inside the walls
As the vibrancy of the music turns to silence until it calls
This tool useless, which only hammers and claws away
at the clambering face which attempts to cleanse with happy grace and gall
Begins perusing the day when the tools of the trade on display rust and fall
They’ll be unable to maintain the cables that stable the fabled grin so tall
So it will shrivel and cripple the smile that was so strong
And make brittle the critter until it’s belittled and small.
But the Glory story isn’t already ready to bawl,
It’s gonna defend against attempts to bend and condemn them
Since it’s appalled at the structure, which fluctuates its hate and breaks
Its 8-hour-a-day-balls,
Which he pockets like Glory, which he locks, encased in lockets
Incase it gets gory in brawls
Glory rages in lockets, while they shovel violently
the "ore" from out of Boredom and the "Iron" out of Irony.
Pace movements turn mute then mutate two-step
and mutilate military mockery rudeness to prove its prudence to the thrall
Who’s peddling meddling blueprints that recruit unsettling untrue hints all
“Medley of labor caters to neighbors of Glory
And favors the poorly equipped ships that savor ambition haughty
Sailors who happen to vision themselves later
in a captain position in health flavor”
Like dafter masters aimed to play savior to these dream creators?
Maybe that’s true of their work machine invention
But their crude intentions only turn attention to befriend the crew mentioned
If they shovel coal to the engine.
Either/or
More dimensions of pretentiousness are settled in Glory’s enemy vessel’s kin.
It never ends always ending in setting:
Tasteless levels of disheveled facial placement on the faceless w
ho used to hate this but they since forgot what ancient p
ursuit of Glory’s
name is and how to paint it’s components
Break less 8 hour moments make for hatred amongst the owner’s
Slaves, which the great Grinch makes shifts for to, take away cinch grin
Situation, and slay the playfulness and able ness to play to the fullest.
So they’re left unheard, herded like cattle in cages
While farm owners cruelly cow-tip minimum wages
And Glory rages in lockets while they shovel violently,
The “ore” from out of Boredom and the “iron” out of Irony.
We’re talking the irony found crowning only from the kingdom where all
Peasants are taught to work until tomb in the worst case.
Since labor got them out of the womb in the first place.
And that sad fact is half of them are at this with back splints
Because they’re convinced hard work gets them active round table status.
So they end up ending up nowhere.
Spending their lives digging their own deep grave moats
Always, but never once digging to store what’ll float their knave boats.
And these cyclic clock swallowing crock invested waters are Iron Glory and Ore bare.
So fittingly, you’ll find their life’s work summed up in “I.G.O. Nowhere”.
Cause they’re all dying to make a living and oh yeah,
They’re giving it all they got on the side to save up for a ride to the blacksmith
Cause they got dusty lockets, etched on the back is the word “Glory”
Crafted during infrequent performed but oft’ thought of leisure minutes
with the delicacy of dream catcher creator treasure digits.
And something ain’t right and they’ve gotta fix the matter,
Cause this locket's rocking noise in this pitter patter pattern.
And Glory rages in lockets while they shovel violently
The "ore" from out of boredom and the "iron" out of irony
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3. |
Finite Circle Paradox
01:49
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I found a seed
The seed split to a bean
The bean grew to a fetus
The fetus grew into Jesus
And Jesus splint to a "t" just
To please and complete the sequence
We see his bleeding in creases
Leaking from feet which teaches,
That peace and pleading just teases
All life weaves brief and then ceases.
The story morphs allegory (x4)
The tale splits and they preach this
But preaches grew to screeches
That seemingly meets us and greets us
But beaming breeds keys, which release us,
From viper secretions that seize us which
Cleaves trust, screaming “ENOUGH”
And leaves us teamed up
Against greed lust ring leader tree stump
That recedes to a "t" just to lead up
To a cyclic creed piece of the seasons.
The seasons they brought up autumns (x4)
And the autumns split to leaves plush.
The leaves creep up along the eves of trees
Plus shouting out “please will the grief cut out
Of the pea’s pus, we must need love
Or some sea sum, or to see some sun
Because if weeds run to eat lunch
On our peat bunch then we’ll be crushed
Which speeds up our brief clutch on this
Moss seamed rug living room seat club.
The hours they grow to days (x4)
The days split to weeks but
Those weeks split to cheap months,
And our cheeks flush and we blush.
Cluster our years into teeth brush
And meat munch, crumpled our
Greed lust into repaired keen trust.
The narrator may cease but,
A new teen just cleans up the
Beat up tree’s lean stump scribe bits
And if we read what’s pieced up it goes like this:
“I found a seed"
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4. |
It Always Pays
02:19
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I was strolling home one morning
and the sun was mighty friendly
her solar lips tenderly kissed my left cheek
as the breath of breeze gently caressed me
suddenly a younger teen of twelve or so,
face swelled with hope rode intimately adjacently,
on his bike, he fought timidity blatantly as our eyes caught,
then I defined the cause as to why his ride was paused
he quickly inquired, "have you seen a twenty on the sidewalk?"
At first I'd thought "I've seen no bill" but then I figured
"what the hell, he'd never write me in his will
but write me off as swell, well, I'm sure he will!"
I said "Chill, friend, buddy, chum, you're still in plenty luck,
I handed him the Jackson headed twenty bucks
i complimentarily fished out of my shorts
he cocked his head to me and sure revealed the gleam of his now confident teeth so pure!
He seemed relieved to say the least that Id returned
the green then expressively he returned the glee the
he'd returned the way he came to me.
I continued onward my homebound path
feeling grand that I'd handed the lad the cash.
I had nearly arrived when excitedly I had spied, surprised
the twenty that he had tried to find, I let it slide into my wallet
and I thought regardless of if Id found it, I'd have found
that it always pays to be kind.
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5. |
Revealed [Universal]
02:37
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I wander the forest of life by referencing claims
made by occupants on memory lane,
they lend me their brain so I might better be trained
to travel on the path, I watch what's unraveled in the past
and I let this list of merits tackle all the bad.
Contemplation only makes this plausible
I boldly take the cause of all existence
as a whisper that's inaudible,
with training we can sort of pull
the source of all more near
until it's something that you hear
whispering inside your ear.
When I try it, my intellect is a credential test
I use this sentimental text to help represent those quests
to document those mental treks where I
metaphorically metamorphic transform
distorted dreams into thought processes
that are at war to breed
an answer to the formed belief
of moral portals and mortal grief
that importantly calls to me and all the flaws
of all these sources of all to be.
Yeah, year after year i make an annual one of these at least,
It's about time I made another one probably...
wait... rewind, see "time"? press pause, release:
"Its about time".
It's always about time that fucking beast!
Then on a stroll one day I lost control of pace
and slipped into a Lewis Carol-esque cavern hole
and made the inference that a lack of control is the role to play.
Suddenly before prophecy of what'd become of me
I was smothering in an encompassing strange covering
uncomfortably muttering grief and nobody's ever discovered me.
It was a real movie reel from a company labeled "The End" far from subtly.
Triathlon marathon the title "Life Paths" was puzzling,
Lost between behemoth screens seemingly 3D fun leads
I got bored of the documentary "girl tanning with no sunscreen"
I blew through the flick filled with old western gun scenes
what befuddled me was the plot of an unstudied
heliocentric scientist who ironically caught blindness from sun beams
decades i laid there as it replayed there in front of me
aware my mental bloodstream developed resolution addiction to my wondering.
delirious, my purpose over when the projector cut beam
thats when it all added up and I died upon equating the sums means
A surprise remains anonymous or it ceases to exist.
If life’s answer’s on your list, then life is gone you can’t persist.
Living is simply homeostasis and consciousness, there is no fixated mix,
Of purposes to grip your fix, the objective is just to live
so as you sit and sift and think of a climactic bliss you’ve dismissed
It’s paradoxical and ironic if you think of what you’ve missed.
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6. |
Rapid Enrapture
02:37
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Jostle the Nos nozzle, guzzle then Full Throttle.
Raw now! Bawls out model wear worn out hearts on bottles.
Infared bullets hostile, Redline-of-fire-at-william-tell-tale-heart-attack colossal,
Monstrous cardiaccupuncture, struck nerves where Samson locks and loaded
posed supposed impermeable patriarch impossibly impounded in hospital
when pounding imposes obstacles. I never even stopped or slowed,
Ironically chose to Vault control enacting problem cope like lots of those
alcoholic dopes who get lost in mopes and hop in boats in awful hopes
that Hopps will float their ship in a bottle dose noxious zone.
Enough literature, my jitters mature and I can't sit still or endure
pure attentiveness as I'm ingesting questionable measurements of beverage adrenaline.
Adrenaline peddling success and then getting immensely energetic again,
injecting can contents ebbing and flowing incredibly growing
Redbull controlling Jolt bolts provoke nodes over-stoked like colts bolt.
Intensity swelling, welling, propelling indelible speed
dispelling drowsiness compelling rowdiness developing astounding sprint
heart-beat-boxing cacophony symphony constantly into me.
Encouraging flourishing worrying hurrying scurrying
Convulse rates pulse race most days no delay go break
boundaries found degrees of power needs endowed with speed
addictions insisting to enlist quick mix to inflict quick fix
rip this chrysalis meddle of this metamorphosis.
Butterfly-knife-effect cut to the chaser,
cutting my life in half rush to the later.
Caffeine fiend freak phenom
vitamin B's breed bleak beats wrong
taurine touring tore me...
detox...crash...need lots...fast.
Twixt cans dried up,
it blasts my pumps,
kiss ass "bye" son,
give fam my love!
this can't quite come
shit, damn life's fun!
"live fast die young"?
Nixed plan, I'm done.
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7. |
Used Up
04:33
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I have a friend now he's a fiend missing the "R" for "rehab"
I want to end this beast wishing he'd depart from these track
marks his enemy left, kissing his arms, though I see that
It's hard to draw the lie when all you want to do is snort it,
Harder still to see the point when it's buried beneath your skin,
He's had his soul cracked in a way that has left him morbid
so now he smokes crack as if to cook a horrid porridge to ignore it,
If he painfully cuts and gouges bright red gorges,
He thinks his pain will cut it out and stop making life less gorgeous?
He wants to quit life so he doesn't quit vices,
he wants to quit vices but he can't quite quit,
the vice grip's too tight tourniquet persists
so he's turning in,
turning in the psycho sick cycle that twists.
Although he hates vomiting drunk he has some sympathy
for those who nauseously plunge sick beneath
the wine and wino's surface.
Because he constantly comes back to punch pinch and squeeze,
slipping dope in with the awful sleek vile hypodermic.
And as for exits from the fix, it seems there aren't any,
an effective center that exists that fixes well that's N/A
Non applicable, not at all N.A. assemblies anyway
"Narcotic's Anonymous"? These underfed malnourished skeletons with deadly frames
Once possessed identities, families and friends, but now have petty names?
He wants to quit life so he doesn't quit vices,
he wants to quit vices but he can't quite quit,
the vice grip's too tight tourniquet persists
so he's turning in,
turning in the psycho sick cycle that twists.
How hard could it be for the needle eye to swallow thread
when it's so easy for the tip of it to swallow my friend?
He wants to quit life so he doesn't quit vices,
he wants to quit vices but he can't quite quit,
the vice grip's too tight tourniquet persists
so he's turning in,
turning in the psycho sick cycle that twists.
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8. |
Pulse
03:14
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Do ya'll have a pulse?
An inquisition has arisen
and I know it sounds ridiculous
but many have a vicious vision
of what living is, plenty know what livid is
but if you're listening I want positive deposited
synonymous with kids that are interested
in what is written in their Christmas lists
So do ya'll have a pulse?
A question again I'll pose,
some of ya'll say "of course" but ain't even close,
but don't put your blade to your wrist to check it!
If life's a wreck then trust when I recommend and beckon second thoughts
like "it ain't over yet man"
Do your best to open your eyes, slope your grin wide,
open the blinds and let the sunshine and fun times inside
So when I ask the line about your personal welfare
I want to hear a clear and convincing "Hell Yeah"
So do ya'll have a pulse?
Damn well thats great to know!
I've got a qualm I've been waiting to relate to though,
You're familiar with how this situation goes,
maybe your day is slow and so you brave the coast
but you behave so gross like display and boast
that you've got a countenance the creates lakes from snow
we're all quiet with hatred so,
is it graceless or tasteless? Both!
It's best to suggest and just shake the pose,
forget the break bliss prose,
smiles, you never want to wait to show
its a wildflower that you want to rake and grow,
so start befriending me and wake the pulse
because it's our energy that'll make the show!
Grins and laughter ought to with Oscars and Grammy's soon
So answer my conclusion questions with a "yeah we do"
Do to hate when you scarcely move?
Do you hate when you're very lewd?
Do you hate when you're scary crude?
Do you love what you hear me do?
Now I can smile really clearly too
We've all got a pulse it ain't something that we should barely prove.
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9. |
If Not For
03:40
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I've got some old flames whose heat sears,
but if not for old flames I wouldn't be here,
There's nothing I'd take to repeat my sins for,
but if not for some sins, I might not have been born.
Strange how the things that plague me
are the same that made me
Strange how the things I regret
are the seeds I needed,
No chemical vices I choose I submit to.
Might not have been advice
if not for what they'd been through
There have been people who I've let abuse me,
But if not for bruises I wouldn't seek beauty.
Odd how the things that seize us
are the same that free us,
Odd how the things that siege us
are the same that teach us.
There may be awkwardness
in our origins,
but even awful limbs,
with morbid tints
bear cores within,
one autumn wind or
storm will rip it
from the leaves thrown,
clouds pour the swim
for seeds sown,
In scores of ticks
there will be a tree grown
for a Rembrandt
to make a portrait with
an easel
portraying gorgeousness
with ease, most remember it:
rain waters it and reaps growth
earth fosters it in a deep cloak,
so next time you hate these zones
please know that you need both...
Strange how the things that plague me
are the same that made me
Strange how the things I regret
are the seeds I needed,
Odd how the things that seize us
are the same that free us,
Odd how the things that siege us
are the same that teach us.
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AllOne
Left-field rapper, slam poet, singer/songwriter, and author Bruce Pandolfo from Long Island.
Creating to connect. Obsessively exploring and creating art as healing and growing.
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