My Words Are Not Lost

Kill me with words I've already said,
the showering pellets of quantified dread.
I spent so much time lugging the pen,
I lost what was meant for the hand and the head.
Trinkets so tranquil and cozy to clasp,
lasting like language on cartaroid sap-
the stench of a sketch of a coveted map,
emotional faucets so duly unkempt.
Does it mean more to you, this blackened bloodshed?
This lettering heading the headstones of dead?
The climbing of ivy of enkindled kindred
From falsely forsaken tombs painted red?
Read more than is here to set yourself free;
My words are not lost, but are not found in me.

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