Pablo Picasso’s “The Old Guitarist”

the-old-guitarist

I’m in a poetry-writing mood. Thus, I thought I would tell this story through a poem. Hopefully, that’s okay.

blue by: ellen li

sometimes I can’t help but feel blue

I sink into the feeling of blue

elongated arms and feet swept beneath,

sadness is not a feeling that can be seen

expressed only through the color of blue.

 

I’ve come a long way to get to here

and my heavy guilt-ridden arms can’t even move

my mere fingertips strum a chord or two

and I sit here every day after my walk through the woods

in my solace of blue

 

A traveller once said to me,

“why do you do what you do?”

I barely tilt my head over to whisper

my sweet little melancholy tune,

“It’s not like me to not be so very…

so very very blue. It’s who I am

for it wants me to stay true.” 

 

Today, I return to this point of blue

my thin waxy skin sheds blue

under the cast of a shadow, blue forms

And from here, I have not yet moved.

 

I can only bring myself to clutch my guitar in-hand.

I can only breathe through my blue.

only my guitar brings a color to my life.

this is not how I really am

this is not how I really look

this is exactly what it seems to be

how I feel.

depression is the color of blue.

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