You'd have to slit my throat and kill me,
Detaching my head from its enabled body,
To spill my thoughts and experience my dream world.
Only then could you ever truly paint
With all the pigments of my imagination to recreate
My fantasies and bind them in a book to finally read my mind.
You'd have to take a saw to my chest and cut me open,
Separating skin and bones from my soul,
To hear the broken beat and know my heart.
Only then could you ever truly see
The imperfection that is my genetic makeup
When all you've ever known is my flawlessness.
You'd have to crush my hands and smash my fingers,
Unbuttoning my joints, keeping these capable palms
From my will, never again to get a hold on my thoughts.
Only then could you ever truly feel
The empty weight of your hands hanging at your sides,
Knowing that mine no longer carry emotion.
You'd have to break my legs and unscrew my feet,
Leaving me without means of escape, so I could lay on my back
Forever, searching for lightless points on your popcorn ceiling.
Only then could you ever truly realize,
That my creativity is not limited by a lack of limbs;
And no limitation on inspiration could take that away.