I know why poets kill themselves

I know why poets kill themselves
I know why the stones the gas the guns
I know the feeling of unrecoverable loss
I know the moss
that gathers on these hearts
looking so curious, at first glossy
with warm blood and throbbing
with all the questions unanswered
all the stars bright and the lack
of echo in the skies
but then these hearts are gloomy, coarse
and swollen with silence (the answers are never given)

we die before

and that's why poets kill themselves
because when they die to others
they have already died to themselves