Dreams, by Danny Kemp

A psychiatrist stands watching, in a pathology lab.
An anaesthetist holds a needle waiting to stab
The brain that needs examining because it refuses to die,
Whilst living in a world that only lives within its own lie!

The brain is extracted. It’s trembling, fighting for air!
The needle misses its target. The psychiatrist runs from there!
The pathologist cannot examine so few samples of blood,
As the brain rushes onwards creating an unfathomable flood!

Knowledge is scattered far away and afield.
Learning is gathered unleashing a giant yield.
Education saves billions from an otherwise ignorant death,
But the world continues rushing into oblivion without any redress.

What insight can be garnered from such a simple analogy?
Is it one where you believe that it’s only I in need of therapy?
Or, can you see the truths hidden in amongst so many lies,
That pure knowledge is powerful but not seen by most eyes!

It’s not what you have that makes you what you are!
Nor is it who you know that can carry you high and far.
It is what you believe in surrounded by so much vanity
That gives you the ability to make your dreams your reality.

© 2015, Danny Kemp. All rights reserved.


About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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