Mixtape | Poetry

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i am trying to write this poem without thinking of
how another breathes its last somewhere.
all my words are withering inside my body
all my thoughts are scattered like
a fistful of grains burst open.
sadness comes suddenly to me.
there's no weather forecast to death.
you're either ready for it or you never are.
how do i cope up with this grief of
losing my poetry? and how do i tell
the world that my heart aches as if
titanic just saw the last of the stars
drowned in the dark of the ocean
pulling down so many unripe dreams
in its hull, so many lovers and so many unloved?
there's no greater sadness than
losing the things that make you.
my poetry made me,
and i lost it.