A poem about writing stories

Instead of lyrics,
I present a rhyme,
to lose some time,
while others whine,
and authors shine.

Sound of pen breaking,
paper ideas coupling,
heads parallely snapping,
hands spontaneously clapping.

It was proclaimed dead,
yet never been read,
and was kept frozen,
with promises broken.

Stacked and kept in dust,
scrapped, left to rust,
kept forever waiting,
yet always fading...

It's pages yellow,
with words mellow,
push and they all break down,
as you watch, with a frown.

Details pave way for a way unknown,
yet how to write one, is not well known,
be it your to duty to break what is firm,
and use your wits, don't leave it stern.

Norms of tomorrow are meant to be broken,
beasts of the past deserve to be woken.
And beasts awoken bring forth tales,
of all those perished, evil shades.

With doubts, make them freely speak,
and inadvertial havoc you will wreak,
but without end you must still go on,
perfecting it, until all remains is none.

And proudly, you will let it be known,
it is the story, the work, that you own,
that even after all those years, it is still yours,
with all it's tedious, unforgiving chores.