Void of emotion

I saw him once at the party,

Forcing himself to be among friends.

I could see some of him in me

Through the blank, dead stare in his eyes.

It’s like he was an emotional void,

Constantly seeking new mediums of joy.

But none of them really helped his mood

And this party barely helped in that regard.

So I went over to him, asked how he felt,

He told me: “I’m numb, barely here,

An emotional void that seeks to find joy.

I’m awake, and yet this is my nightmare,

I can’t wait to be dead, for then, I’ll truly be alive.”

I wished him well and walked away,

Hit with a sudden empty weight.

Then I realized: joy is only a passing feeling

that must be fed in the face of hardships.


Where does love begin?

The fearful sentients bow to symbols of oppression,

Never giving fellows a motion of compassion.

Resentment follows, each to cleanse their palettes

And off to war they go, sounding their trumpets.

The fearing things bash the beings that they fear

And the feared claw for recognition, to see and hear,

to be as beings in decency, respected with humility,

But humiliated, protect by restricting the will to be free.

Lifetimes are told by battles, the ash and blood of our kind,

and duels still raging, defining the darkness of our nature.

Where there’s a fire, we are the cause,

Committed to our egos, to hell with all else.

It seems we are blind to our blunders and binders

and have forgotten our duty to be kinder.

The clash of fear-mongers and avengers claims all,

Far cries from the valorous neighbors we claim to be, live.

When does the politicking end, this incessant warring,

And when would love enter? Where does love begin?


There only ever is as much darkness

As we choose to let in our own hearts.

When the darkness enters our lives,

Do we chose to compromise our minds?

Do you stand as a candle in that dark,

Standing in watch and silence

For the fallen few consumed by the depths

Never to return to the warmth of open arms?

Do we choose to honour actively

by being sparks of light, in spite of our demons,

demons that defy the march of freedom and equality,

that continue to draw lines of divisiveness?

Stand in the night, candle in hand,

All you nations of beings, shining so bright,

Let us stand in solemn vigil with these fickle lights

To brighten even the hollowest, darkest of all nights.

Leave no sentient behind that fuels us forward,

let it be without need for observances in sorrow.

Let there be understanding in peace, for those to come

So that those that are gone are so, but we be forgiven.

To TWC’s followers!

Hey there followers!

I hope you’re enjoying the content on the blog so far!
I’m wanted to open up the page to you, as I’m looking to write new poems using suggestions from you ladies and gentlemen (and those who don’t identify as either, of course!).
Give me an idea for a theme you would like to see written on a coming poem, and I’ll get to work on it. I will credit you for the idea!

Leave me a comment below with your idea! Let’s call this…Fourth Quarter Creations!
…cause, you know, we’re in the fourth quarter of 2017!

Terrible name? Okay, well, we can work on that too…


– Coeur d’un Poète!

On Snow


It’s the front and back-end of the line,

the last of the seasons in the cycle of life.

Snow tumbles down from the sky

and everything falls into the calm of night.

You can absolutely be forgiven

for not appreciating or seeing the beauty

in the feeling of peace that snow passes on

when taking to the street in darkest night.

For all you see in the distance when looking out

is a thing doomed to be plowed

off the length of the driveway you own,

and on to that of your neighbor’s land.

Have you forgotten the snowman,

the snow angels, the snowballs?

All these little joys of our youths

that only come once a quarter-year?

I see no valid reason why

this weather be so damned different,

as there are many treasures to find

with every speck of snow that falls on the ground.




To The Stars


(Cr. Pr3t3nd3r)


(An original poem by Coeur d’un Poète.)
(Originally posted on Weekly Writing Prompts by Coeur d’un Poète)


One needs no more than to gaze
at the wars we wage with eachother
and wonder when the bloodshed and anger,
fear and hatred will be passed and over.
We see so small this world shared with others
we’ve never left, nor gotten to work leaving,
that wondering what will mixes with wishing
for worlds beyond our reaching, waiting in the night.
Silent stars shine their light, lonely in sight,
their stillness sees through eons of existence
we’ve barely begun to scratch, safe in primitive science
saving the wonders as mysteries we’re not worthy to see.
This is the primacy of the modern human species,
of solitude and shame for the anomalies to conformity,
making deities in man’s image as excuses for piety,
to shy from curiosity, and combat what’s meant to be.

Survival’s our essence, discovery’s a necessity,
disovering causalities and commonalities beyond familiarity,
beyond the blue skies that boast their own natural beauty
and in the space succeeding, seated between struggle and survival.
Such is the hope surpassing that of one man
manning ambitions and expectations barely surpassing their nation
and not accounting for the needs of the whole over their own
now in need of nurture and structure to ensure all our futures.
Endeavour for the enterprise that brightens existence,
but ensures for everyone a sufficient subsistance.
The stars in the sky demand the strongest dreams
and the ambition in hope on which we grab hold.
Heaven is on high, but nigh an afterlife,
rather, a liberation from endless deliberations and confrontations
and the expectation of extension and outreach,
to reach our journey’s end and extend the stellar family.

Space is the stage by which progress is profoundest,
where hope most abundant may never hollow out or fade,
where our ultimate challenge as a unified collective
convinces us of the strengths of all of our convictions.
Uncover the discoveries of the former, dormant universe
and unwravel within the mysteries where life begins.
Unity is a strength scolded not uncommonly,
but uneccessarily broken by the shackles of immaturity.
Go beyond, break the barriers of our Gaia,
and grow man’s reach through these gentle, waiting stars.
Faith in the familliar is as fickle as it is fruitless,
and fosters the failing of long forbidden longings.
Anticipate the needs along the length of time
and our ancestry will be one of a long line.
Hope of survival is the host of our struggle
but enduring life is lived in the lineage eternal.

Endeavours are enduring, as long as there’s no end or ceiling,
no Empire or enforcers to endure, and end this feeling.
Fumbling at first is the best measure of our learning,
for unending is the endeavouring of our pioneering beings.
Broker the prosperity that paves a better path,
and build the proper power to ensure a world free from wrath.
We are the architects of a world waiting in the wings
and waining the wills of hurts and hates of old.
Holster those harmful weapons where war is unwarranted
and work to build the homes of those yet to come.
The stars in the sky demand the strongest dreams
and the ambition in hope on which we grab hold.
Space is the stage by which progress is profoundest,
where hope most abundant may never hollow or fade,
where our ultimate challenge as a unified collective
convinces us of the strengths of all of our generations.


Somewhere, far beyond this land,

the forefathers of revolutions and true democracies

are tossing and turning in their graves

over the degeneration of their demos cratos.

“By the people, for the people” was the anthem,

but has become “by the masses, for the wealthy”.

Liberté, égalité, fraternité no longer precisely translates,

but is taken for property, privilege, and politics.

What is it with rich armchair politicians

who flash public office as a fashion statement?

Do they feel no remorse for their gluttonous greed

that stagnates the growth of human societies?


Fukayama was fundamentally flawed in stating

that democracy was the final stop of human history.

For now, history has fought back in the form of aristocracy

and decmocracy has been remade to satisfy their image.

Take note – we are no more than ants on the ground

hurriedly evading the crushing heel of the rich’s boots,

trying to carve out a decent living, and be recognized

in a system that no longer truly recognizes us.

When did our politics become little more than trash zones

for the despicable elements to find their feeding grounds?

Are we not more than bottom feeders forever meant to feed

the fortunes of those whose fortune dwarfs all commons?

Just as ancient free Greeks lusted for leisure,

and common folk labored without ease on their lives,

here we are again, at the whim of the gluttenous

who care not for the earthly dangers that threaten us.

From dependance propaganda to desperate devolution,

they will say anything to ensure their continued dominance,

to ensure common folk are always fighting each other

and to disturbed by themselves to end this damning cycle.




A collection of verses – I

A flower,
without nature or nurture,
is doomed to wither.

Death is
an inescapable destination
in the course of life.

Growth is essential
to find the essence
of a being.

Stagnation is a danger
that strikes whenever
growth is stunded.

New opportunities are
to growth
as success to advancement.

On Outward Perfection

Fear is a powerful motivator,

but the worst of the influencers.

When you close yourself off to others

it had better be to make yourself better.

You curl up in a ball for better protection

and to facilitate innate introspection

against the dangers of the hostiles outside

that seem, for you to be little more

but murderous, and meticulously devious.


Fear is a powerful feeling,

but does not build the inward perfection

we more often than not feel

is our ultimate destination.

Do we not grow

when we challenge our status quo?

Do we not improve our comfort

by fighting the feelings of discomfort?


While it’s fine to be fulfilled

by finding our inner whole,

we build our contentment

by seeking that which adds to our core.

For we may stagnate

by simply staying in comfort

rather than growing with discomfort

away from the static state of innate.


A collection of verses

If you’re going to write a poem, you generally write one about life. To write about life in it’s entirety, you need to write about all it’s aspects – not just the positive and doctored moments you see on social media. There are hard times that need to be spoken by the brave few who mention them, and acknowledged by the wise who pay attention.

This is a collection of thoughts for all those living in darkness with no way out. This can be written by anyone, spoken by anyone, anyone who’s going through a hard time. Here’s to you.

All I see is night.

Unending, unrelenting

neither wrong, nor right,

it just is, and will be, night.

And yet, I see more clearly

now, than in the blinding light

of the day, and the public


If you are the night,

you cannot be seen.

you are but a whisper

that makes them shiver in broad daylight.


Conviction is a falsehood

as litterally nothing is for certain.

You cannot be sure something exists

as surely as if it doesn’t.

Let people have their fictions,

their odd, fossil wizards

who seem to know better

and are made in their image.

You know they’re wrong,

but you don’t need to point it out,

for doing so is wasted work

and not worth your time.


Why should policy matter?

This theatre of lies

between left and right

if it doesn’t benefit me?

What good is a system

so far removed from the ground

that it seems like those above

are the gods of Olympus

and we, little more

than the oppressed plebes of Athens.


People make millions

for being useless to society

while those milions guaranteed

never go in charitable humanity.

Why make gods

out of useless people

born only to entertain

and out to pasture when their peak is passed?

Why should I care for athletes

and actors, who feed the fictions

of things we could do

that aren’t actually of our existence?


The world turns. It burns.

Let it burn.

The world’s problems

do not concern me.

It is run by sick people

voted in by careless citizens

too absorbed in mediocrity

and their medias to care

about something

too far gone and broken

that they never bothered

to really get involved in.


They always used to say

that no man (nay, being)

should ever die alone

and forgotten.

Guess they were wrong –

everyone has to die, but

whether in a coffin or not,

we all die alone, and are forgotten.

No matter how hard we scream,

blunt or blunder our way

to power, it may be irrelevant

and history tends to forget.


From ashes to ashes –

this is all that we are.

Neither matter, nor trials of the spirit

can truely fill the longing in our hearts.

We hunger to fill the emptiness

of the being and body

only to notice the ever true

futility of our existing.

But we crave more,

our thirst unquenched,

until the soul is scorched

and no seed can be sprung.


My friends said

“there’s a ying to every yang”,

always another half

to make you whole.

If that were true,

I would have found

that one by now,

they who make me whole.

And yet, I found

that it is I who must

make myself whole

and not dependent on another.


Sit and watch

as friends announce engagements

or show off their fun events

while your life is the same as it was before.

None of it interests you,

none of it concerns you.

You are dead to life,

and your friends are dead to you.

There is no need to subscribe

to the egofest of others.

You are all that matters

in the four corners of your room.


See? If you look closely enough

and with the right lens,

you see with greater clarity

than in looking with the light.

For if it truely were easy

to look in broad daylight,

then we wouldn’t be squinting

from the sheer force of the light.

If you are the night,

you cannot be seen.

you are but a whisper

on the edge of daylight.