Different Poetry

How wrong it had been

To choose a girl

Who wrote on funerals and wreaths

At the age of twenty.

When you talk about my poetry,

And me,

I listen…

In silence

In disbelief

In nauseation

In fear

In heartache

In acceptance

In peace.

Then I think -

I too might have written different poetry.

At thirty, maybe forever afterwards.

On hyacinths and quiet conversation of hearts.

Had I walked a different life.

Different poetry

Could not be born of me;

I lost them purposely.