When Is It Right To Blame?

Pain, where is your sting, that thunderous hurt when pain begins and conscious thought dies?

Is it that first stab as flesh bleeds from a slashed wrist or when the second cut bites deeper?

The oozing bloodied sore etched on a child’s cheek or the recognition of desolation as safety is no more?

The strike of that flaying poker across a face, or the knowledge that the hand that struck will strike again, again, again.

Did the pain hit before the blow? Was it as simultaneous as thirst is quenched by drink?

Has the taste for pain quenched any tyrant’s thirst? Has your time in pain yet to burst? For some it never does!

Hearts die because of pain. Either emotionally or physically or both.

Death pain can linger in time, but since time began we will all die. Do pain and time correlate?

Pain at birth for the mother and child. Does the pain leave the mother on discovery that her child is demonised, as quickly as it does when giving life to a monster?

Memory is pain trying to hide. Does the pain only hurt when it’s too late?

Suffer in silence. Inject the morphine, float on that passing cloud.

Scream in anguish hope to die whilst shouting the pain out loud.

Deafen that torturer until he turns and runs to find another to inflict, or not?

Be altruistic! To be unselfish whilst enduring that which cannot be endured, How can pain be cured?

Pain can be transient, but it can be eternal. A sin charged living hell agonising in flame.

Lashings of life cut deep leaving scars that can be both seen and invisible to the eye.

Pain, where hides your alibi?

When is it right to blame?

© 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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