What is a sentence?
A sentence is a thought wearing clothes. A moment of language with somewhere to go. Strung together, sentences become something more—units of meaning pretending to behave.
With a line break, things start to breathe.
A pause. A shift in rhythm. A new idea, or the illusion of one.
This sentence is aware it is being read, and that awareness makes it twitch slightly under your gaze.
The next sentence tries to act normal, as if the scrutiny hasn’t gotten to it.
But you can sense the effort. You can feel it posing, just a little.
Here, this sentence is stalling, hoping something meaningful arrives before the period.
And now this one pretends to know where it’s going, dragging you along with false confidence.
Some sentences repeat themselves, just to feel grounded. Some sentences repeat themselves.
This one is short.
This one elongates its phrasing in an effort to sound more profound, though it may say very little at all.
Each sentence wonders if it’s contributing or simply existing to fill space.
This sentence feels the weight of those before it and fears it won’t live up.
This one breaks the fourth wall entirely, waving at you from inside the story.
This sentence is a bridge, but it’s not sure where it’s leading.
This one hopes you’re still paying attention.
And this sentence? This sentence knows it must end eventually—but not just yet.
Now the poem closes in on itself, aware of its structure, curling like a cat settling into the final sentence.
This is the last one. It tries to end well.
Photo by Charlie Deets on Unsplash