Blue Period

I saw the man in Picasso’s painting.
The tattered soul in vagabond threads
draped in an elegance of despair;
in his steel hands, a dull almond guitar
-like the cowboy boots
you said you’d never take off,
the ones that pronounced your footsteps
with that Texas twang you hated.

For a moment I thought I understood
the melancholy with which the oils
stained the canvas,
they didn’t want to be vandalizing
a murdered tree…
but with the severed finger
of a sandpapered olive branch
and a clump eyelashes,
oil was smeared in precise strokes.

“He’s blind, you know.”
I thought I could hear the sarcasm
that clung to the cold-sores in your mouth,
lethal tones of arrogance laced with spearmint.
Spare me your metallic tendencies for a bit longer,
I see the obvious has found a new way
to make you sick.

I carried my insecurity in my handbag
with the war paint and charcoal
(readily available in case I needed a new mask),
but shattered the balance
when you emptied the contents.
I still wrote poetry, but you told me not to;
it was a sad excuse to bleed words.

The dust has just settled comfortably;
bags unpacked and bunnies released,
I thought I could forget your disgust.
I’m trying not to leak regret from my eyes,
because even I know it’s shameful
to reveal the vulnerable flip-side
of a rock.

Maybe that’s why you left.
Can I die now?

Tags: picasso, poem, poems, poetry, poetry blog, poetry writing, poets, poets corner, sadness, the old guitarist, thoughts in my head, writing, writing poetry