The Language of Innocent Criminals

Words are twisted like vines,
Cultivated unnaturally, pruned to fit,
The desires of the lofty gardener,
Who does not understand the seed.

Like primates we scream at one another,
Never hearing what sounds hang in the air.
Always trying to defend something dear,
Which is never under any kind of siege.

Our composition leads our minds to falseness,
Spouting raw emotions to save broken hearts,
Down upon the mattress we lay out our sorrows,
Staining our hands with unneeded anxious liquids.

Solid forms seeming so distant in our reality,
We grab the ethereal wisps of dead situations.
We realize too late that our footing is anchored,
Upon the precipice, so that we cannot help but look down.

Many planes coming together to create this one,
And yet we can only imagine the ones most familiar.
We are all souls who are moved, yet we pretend stiffness.
This lack of openness allows the wars to exist.

Bleaching our teeth to seem much mightier,
When in truth our yellowed bone is out testament.
A testament to the words that have exited us,
A testament we always bury deep beneath the garden.

Eyes meet eyes, and faces relax.
When I am coming in clear and simple,
You know you are no longer listening,
To the language of innocent criminals.