Sparkly Things Poem by Aimee Daniels

There are no teardrops on my guitar instead only dust, forgotten music unplayed in anything but memories,
and the garden that was my soul grows brown,
no more to create, no rain to make things grow.

I sigh, realizing how faded a shell I have become,
once so colorful and bright, a pretty sparkly thing.
No more to fly, no more to sing.

Wondering what happened from the way I used to be,
once a mighty oak, and now a fallen dying tree.
Can not someone come along and prop me up again?
Perhaps a song will do me good? But when, Oh when?