My guitar
An hour passed, mom still wasn't back. Two hours, still no mom. It was only yesterday that I moved here. My suitcases were still stacked up at the bottom of the stairs. I sat on the porch underneath the scorching sun, Strumming my guitar gently. The sun made my light brown hair look slightly ginger. It highlighted the edges and a shadow was cast on the porch. The gently series of strumming soon became a song, and the note book next to me now was full of about 4 songs. My dad had bought me that guitar when I was 12, then it was too big for me; now it was too big for me. But I didn't care, I loved that guitar. It was pink with a pretty golden pattern around the edge of the middle. I have been singing ever since I was three, there is a video of me with a blonde wig on and a fake microphone singing ''the sun will come out tomorrow'' from Annie when I was about four.
It would need tuning soon though, I had noticed the keys sounded a bit off when challenging myself to perform Miley Cyrus' ''wrecking ball'' the acoustic version. My thoughts averted to when I lived in New York with my dad, how busy everywhere was and the rush hour traffic and the sounds, the lights, the shops. In some respect I missed the busy life, up on the road with my dad. When I was 14, my dad and the rest of his band organised their own festival in an abandoned warehouse and I was the opening act. I sung a song I wrote myself.
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