Disconnect the TRUTH from Behind.

As she walks towards her house
The autumn leaves fall to the ground;
She swings the door open
And a warm breeze gently touches her face.

She enters her room
And drops her bag on the floor;
She plops down on her bed
And glances at her left.

She stares at a case
Sitting down at a corner;
She stands up and carries it
And grabs hold of the zipper.

She opens it slowly
And looks inside it;
She inserts her hands into the bag
And lifts up an instrument.

She positions it with her hands
And throws her hood back on;
She picks up a guitar pick
And rolls up her long sleeves.

She clutches the pick
And strums the strings to check how it sounds;
She then fixes herself
And slides the pick down the strings.

The sound echoes around the room
And the rhythm goes by with the music;
She nods her head to the beat
While her hands move from string to string.

She starts singing her song
That she has just composed in school;
She strums her guitar strings with feeling
And ends the song with a high pitch and a low strum of her guitar.