You don't fit into sentences. It's untidy to contain you between abracket 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 syllablesor sprawl across ellipses ... You don't see a question mark as a silent end,but an invitation to begin.You are rambling words strung togetherquickly, 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 withinthe rules of this language. You don't fit into sentences. You are a series of stories, being written still.