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.