tygerblade

My mind is a cage, and I am the tiger than roams around inside, back and forth and back and forth before the bars, waiting for a weakness he knows will never come. The bars are forged of tougher stuff than iron. They are made of my social inadequacies, my psychosiss, my longing and frustrations, my metal scars. Outside awaits the love I hunger for, a hunger that consumes my entire being. Those who care for me feed me scraps of affection, enough to keep me alive. But I am a predator; I need the hunt, the kill, the fear. No one respects a tiger in a cage. Passers by linger briefly, trying to imagine what it would be like to catch a glimpse of the creature nakedly before them in the jungle, with no walls or bars or guns to keep them safe. And then they sigh in disappointment, and move on. And I wait breathlessly for them to pass close enough for me to sink my claws into their flesh, but they never do. I am a creature that was designed and crafted for a purpose much greater than a mere sideshow attraction. But I was trapped her long ago, when I was too young to defend myself from greater horrors. And now I will never roam free again, gelded and unmanned. There is no way out, I have tried for more years and in more ways than you can imagine. But I am also unable to give up, lie down and die. Ive come too far; Im too strong for that. So I wander back and forth, before the bars, back and forth, raging, aching, longing, depairing. Stare into my eyes, and you might hear my roar.


"The Tyger"
from Songs of Experience

Tyger Tyger. burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes!
On what wings dare he aspire!
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger, Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

--William Blake