Workin' Progress
We're all a work in progress,
do you progress your work?
We're all a worth to process,
how do you process your worth?
I went from H.I. To Playwrite,
unsavory crass piercings to favoring rap writtens,
from raw stunts to AllOne
depraved with my lashed skin and burnt flaming hands in cinema
to the cadence and fast rhythms the aims of the past switching.
Johnny Knoxville: breaking my back living.
Tennessee Williams, beast with language of vast tinting
menagerie glass prisms, a slave to the craft penning
note factor: no matter the place of my ambition
my brain isn't stagnant, in a state of it's transition
with creative and grand visions.
A hurricane and wingspan kissing, (it's the butterfly effect.)
I was crazed in the beginning, but I tried to vent it,
Dependent on making up planned fiction,
with a wonder I invent, and now I'm clear headed
with ambiguous sad images as how Shutter Island ended.
And whenever I'm progressive, I accept it, it's expected.
We're all a work in progress,
do you progress your work?
We're all a worth to process,
how do you process your worth?
Ideally I'd wish I'd whisper sweet nothings in your ears,
but really I'll just speak so much you'll wish I wasn't there.
My heart isn't encased in any sort of picture frame,
it ripped the cage and slipped away (much like the Grinch's eh?)
It's got a resting ridiculous rate of 1,000 words a minute pace.
And those words tend to escape unexpectedly intense and insane
My birthday cards get lengthy and mushy quickly,
crammed cramped confessionals encouraging fulfilling living,
they say more than most parents to their kids by fifty.
It's to make up for not seeing you enough because I'm busy,
and simply to amend that I'm too broke for gift giving.
Silly and interestingly: I scrawl 'em while driving from the gift shop,
my Kodak moment's the cutting room floor of Hitchcock,
Most of my favorite clothing is thrift bought,
and more often than not: I get depressed instead of pissed off.
I'm just not the guy who's gonna yell if/when we're fighting,
it's actually unexciting, I'll talk rationally and nicely,
till you ask me to leave, brightening, since I'm not dramatically enticing,
"Where's the passion wheres the lightning?"
Honestly, I find conflict frightening,
and I'd rather tell you I was wrong
and that I hate myself in writing
than turn beet red and pretend I know the right thing.
And whenever I'm rejected, I accept it, it's expected.
We're all a work in progress,
do you progress your work?
We're all a worth to process,
how do you process your worth?
Chrono-miser afraid to waste time, as I spend it's
directly affecting my self-worth and value, taxing my connections
to fulfill personal objectives, unable to find a balance so I'm left in a deficit.
Depressing: we got all this baggage, but we ain't going anywhere,
take my leave of absence, can't move on, I see you everywhere,
So I take the pen (pin) out feelin' explosive like a grenadier,
The last several years...regrets and fears,
exes speared through the middle like an asterisk,
had you on my arm, as the tattoo is, you had to skip,
now you're only on my mind, show me there's a sign,
totally despite supporters in corner, I've been lonely in my life,
There's a pulling in my throat, every breath I take,
Heart is overworked, shackled by a heavy weight.
Pressure behind my eyes, like when a levy breaks,
Wishing there's a penny placed there almost every day,
My lips twitch itching to frown, at any given minute now,
I'll be six in the ground, roots writhing around.
Went from two peas within a pod, to ruined beans that sit and rot,
I choose to scream at mythic monstrous
dubiously existent gods, as ship or water,
lip or dock, you never know the role you're cast:
sitting bottom/swim in salt on which side of the fishing rod,
Here's a hint for ya'll, maybe there's a different option...
I feel like I sink and bob, bonded to lines that trick those caught.
Even in difficult thoughts, my ending hope's to live out long,
and give the citizens upon this coast and spinning rock
some hope to grip upon, keep em hooked, stringing along and singing songs.
And whenever I'm connective, I accept it, it's expected.
credits
from Stone Soup For The Soul,
released March 26, 2017
Beatboxing by Kaila Mullady
Written and performed by Bruce "AllOne" Pandolfo
Live on WUSB with Jim Davis' "Say What's Radio"
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.
Deeply vivid/introspective lyrics populate this ambitious folk rock project. The arrangements span from mellow/minimal to rocking and grandiose. Consistently emotive, unique and sincere. Brilliance. AllOne
Progressive yet punk, aggro yet emotional. One of my favorite bands from Long Island and doing everything they can to live up to their name, raising money for causes and making badass music, AllOne
