I’ve always wanted to play the guitar.

Strum the strings softly with a
Plastic pick, humming to my own tune.
Entertain my family
During a camping trip,
Playing peaceful songs around the fire.
For it to lie across my lap, the
Polished wood
Glinting, as my fingers struggle to pronounce each chord.

Receive deep indentions on my fingertips,
Callused
And tender to the touch, after hours of an
Acoustic creation.
Try and memorize each note of the Beatles’, until I close my eyes while playing.
To delicately turn the shiny, sliver pegs,
Listening,
So very closely, to the slight change of sound
Escaping the string.
Being so strong, yet so vulnerable.

For my elbow to rest along
The side, with only my wrist
Performing the up and down motions. Starting with a slow beat and then
Becoming faster,


Faster,


Faster, never wanting to stop, my mind
Submerging in the dangerous depths of the melody.

My fingers sweaty.
The pick slipping from my grasp.
Rhythm and beat,
Blurred because of my fading control.
My hand skids across the neck,
While my fingers slam
Onto the strings. The occasional scratching against the pick guard, and the
Buzz,
Thunk,
Squeak,
From my uncertain fingers make the music even more irresistible.
The power, immense, controls my
Very soul
Refusing to let go.
Adrenaline pumping in my blood, the music is singing,
Loud and
Great.

I’m rocking hard.

Suddenly, everything decreases
As I come to the end.
A calm, quiet tune, emerges,
Strumming slower and slower, down
To the very last chord.
My pick slides against its strings,
The sound echoing, holding out the notes, like
A never-ending lullaby.

I open my eyes, allowing my heart
To relax
My arms to
Breathe.
That wasn’t me strumming, squealing, rocking,
But who I will become.
Now, I’m only at the beginning.