My cherry tree stands quite tall, bearing fruits and flowers
Good for climbing  and snacking, breathing and thinking
Walk out upon a limb, and lean against a branch
To calm and relax and hang out with friends
Laughing and joking, playing and singing
Hot sticky summers, made all the stickier by cherries
Sunshine dappled grass beneath the tree
The perfect Treffpunkt for all us monkeys and goofballs.

I am not a number.
I am more.
I'm a rhythm.
A clock, circadian,
A heart beat,
The music inside me.
I am a rhythm.

I am not a score.
I am more.
I'm a movement.
An individual, its
Like a non-religious transcendentalist,
A dancer, prancer,
An accidental fall.
I have a purpose.
I am a movement.

Who are you?
A number?
A score?
An A?
B?
C?
See?
Its not you, its how we were raised to be.

Thirteen years in a structured school
Teaching you only how to earn points
And memorize facts.

But I want to be smart.
An astrophysicist
An anthropologist
A pediatric psychologist

I want to own a home.
Lease a car.
Pay my bills.
Invest my money.

Where do I learn to do all that?

Look into your future,
Inside your dreams.
How do you get there?
How do you find
What seems
To be impossible?

Let me tell you,
Its possible.
Education
Filled with learning,
Filled with ACTUAL learning.
And motivation.
Its a structure,
But its home.
Its a routine,
Its a family.

Its in your head.
You create your setting.
The gloomiest day, with a smile on your face
And you've already become more.

When you want education,
You'll find it.
You'll find it with passionate teachers,
And summer camps,
And clubs
And sports
And, AP stats?

When you push yourself forward,
You'll feel pressure backwards,
But it won't drag you down,
If you don't let it.

It's a choice to make.
You'll be here anyways.

Its that day you walk across that stage
And find the smiles of your peers
And realize that although you're still here,
You're moving forward.

I know that I am more.
Than my 11th grade AP test score.
I know that I am more,
Than my homework,
Than my scars,
Than the number of marks
That are on my arms.
Than my rank,
My GPA,
Or any standardized test I took on a Saturday.
Than the number of hugs that I get when cry,
Or the number of graduates who will say good-bye.
Because at the end of the day
Or right here and right now
Or whatever cliche
I know I can say

I am more.

it’s been so long
that you’ve been gone
yet the electricity in your touch
has lingered inside of me
for much longer than our time spent apart.
and now,
you’re back again
with that same transcendentalist stride
holding the world in your hands
as if you were a god
and if you are to be so powerful
please, by all means
take my fate into your strong hands
and make me everything you need
create, in me
an everlasting love
with enough will to conquer galaxies
and enough hope
to save whatever is left
of this humanity.

I do not trade
I'm no merchandiser
life to me is no market-place
commodities I don't treasure-

to the fields and hills I belong
like a lover I court Nature
in her embrace and nakedness
every rapture and joy I capture.

Jack Kerouac made my momma hitch

down the west coast from Seattle to

Albaquerque in the 1970s but she

never made it to Mexico

Jack Kerouac made my dadda struggle

through an English major only to dig

ditches and deliver mail twenty years later

Jack Kerouac made me who I am today

a Dharma *** looking for any highway

outta here to Frisco to New York City to

subsist solely on coffee and searching for

Nirvana and being forever unsatisfied

with the name I was chained to at

birth people ought to choose their own

Jack Kerouac made who I am tomorrow

completely impossible to discern but he

filled me with blank paper and handed

me a pen and Thoreau the great

Transcendentalist made me write in

the dark but Jack Kerouac made me

transcend the ******* and write

for nothing for Buddha for smoky

haze for the turtle that walks with

the world on its back I may now

never stop looking for me in the

streets of Denver to ask me where

I would be without Jack Kerouac

Transcendentalist conceit. My choice of delivery. Arbitrary? Perhaps, but fun. And it gave me an excuse to stall for quality. But apparently it became a stream of consciousness somewhere along the line. It also seems to be coming along in a sort of  meta(physical) fashion. Metacognition. All (the) techniques I like.
I like you.
Parallel inspiration, a sublime way to, again, stall, also to make it interesting. But the comparison is difficult to find. Hidden in the æther, as it was.
What are you?
A tree?
Nature?
Air,
earth,
water,
fire,
or spirit?
Life?
Death?
All,
or even nothing?
No.
So far into this frozen in time facsimile of my mind, of me, yet still you know not what I think of you as, what I contrast you with. What I
Compare
you to. What I
Expect
you to
Live Up To.
Anxiety?
How many poems will I write before this ones done? ultimately one, yet many. Am I stalling even now? A tease of sorts. I am quite good at that. The conceit. What is it?
Do you want it?
A hundred thousand parallel rush through my mind only to be pushed off the line. A note written by my current and intended audience printed "I love you".
I underline you and return to sender.
Inspiration! flooding my mind!
Are you sharp enough to have discerned the parallel yet? hopefully. But if you think you are, you're wrong. There is no parallel. Moreover, a parallel poorly defines a line. what we really need is a co-linear expression. In truth, the conceit is pretty conceited.
I compare you to you.
My grand conceit.
When you I see,  see I you.
I see the candid truth that you duplicitous lie. I see your beauty alongside your failure to recognize and believe.
I see you.
And I love what I see.

charged with ****** in the first degree
its voluntary manslaughter every day
from the moment he awakens
until he draws out his nightly eulogy
from the well of his dreams
that tragic transcendentalist
just got led astray
from the red ribbon path I laid for him
when he decided
(but the Devil made him do it)
to take that scissor-edged blade
and cut his way free
it's worthy of hearing
but the jury won't listen
so he'll just **** again
until he gets the conviction he wants
charged with ****** in the first degree
he's only the shell of who he used to be
when he tears off the wings
from the Hope fluttering inside him
at night where even Sun can't see

Reading in the library
With hair all aflame,
Everyone else looked the same,
But she seemed quite contrary.
I think it was Thoreau she had open,
A proper transcendentalist,
Like a lost soul missed
With some words left unspoken.  
It took just a moment to leave me in awe,
Of the sparkling flame,
Who forever in my mind will have no name,
Just someone I saw.