You don't fit into sentences.

You don't fit into sentences. 
It's untidy to contain you between a
bracket of punctuation;
                              You run on. 
I imagine you nervous when contained,
stuck before such finite constraints as a period.
You need space -- room to slip over syllables
or sprawl across ellipses ... 
You don't see a question mark as a silent end,
but an invitation to begin.
You are rambling words strung together
quickly, breathlessly, carefully, continuously -- 
a sound that begs energy and holds attention.
You wait for correction, unafraid to be called a mistake. 
You stand a challenge for any red pen to revise. 
I can't imagine an edit that would do you justice,
that would reel you in so that you'd fit within
the rules of this language. 
You don't fit into sentences. 
You are a series of stories, being written still.

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