Snip by snip I cut off each piece that was once apart of me

They fall to the ground
Roaring but unable to move

That’s the story of how I cut off all that was once left of me

Searching for something to write
Pen in hand
I rewrite other’s words
To pass by time
Some write their story and others sing theirs

but me

I have not a story to fill these pages

Some people need to
Live other’s lives before they can be greatful for their own

All I really want is someone who admires me from afar as I pick a flower from the ground because it stood out in my eyes

Imagination and/or a story

Any person asked will say they can sit in their room for hours with plugs in
Listening to a tune of someone else’s creation
Then why is it so hard to read a poem?
Both someone else’s words
While songs are valued for their tune
Poems for their words  
A poem holds a story which a modern song can’t express