Poetry by Rowan Evans

Oh look—another poem about pain
disguised as transformation.
Another phoenix metaphor
as if setting yourself on fire
was ever the same as healing.

You bleed onto the page
and call it sacred.
But let’s be real—
half the time, you don’t even feel it.
You just know how to make it rhyme.

Shuddup, Poet.
You’re not writing epiphanies.
You’re writing escape routes.
Every stanza is a soft excuse
for why you can’t just say
“I’m scared” out loud.
You bury it under moonlight,
call it symbolism,
but we both know it’s fear
dressed in metaphors
you’ve used a hundred times before.

You say you don’t want attention—
but every line is a mirror angled
just right to catch
someone’s admiration.
Don’t play modest,
you check your likes
like they’re validation coupons
you forgot you were addicted to.

You act like a prophet of pain,
but the truth?
You’re just really fucking good
at turning your avoidance
into art.

You dress up your shame
in silk and shadow,
call it “processing,”
but some of these wounds
you keep opening on purpose
just so you have something to write about.

You ever think maybe
you’re not trapped in your trauma—
you’re clinging to it?
Like if you actually let go,
you wouldn’t know what to write about.
You wouldn’t know who you are.

You’ve built a cathedral of grief
and convinced yourself
it was home.
And every time someone tries
to love you in the present,
you write a eulogy
for what they might leave behind.

You’re not fooling anyone.
You’re not brave
for turning pain into poetry.
You’re brave
when you stop needing the poem
to tell you who you are.

So shuddup, Poet—
or don’t.
Just write something
you can’t revise into safety.
Write like the mirror’s cracked
and you’re done polishing the edges.

Write like survival is messy.
Write like joy is terrifying.
Write like softness is not a threat.
Write the poem that doesn’t rhyme,
that doesn’t work,
that just tells the truth
even if no one claps.

Write like you finally believe
there’s something worth saving
underneath all that ink.

Because there is.

And you fucking know it.

You’re not fooling anyone.
Not with the metaphors,
not with the midnight bleeding poems,
not with the “I’m fine” disguised as
“I’m just editing.”
You call it processing.
I call it hiding with flair.

You’re not brave
just because you can turn pain into prose.
You’re brave
when you stop making your healing
sound poetic enough to be palatable.

So shuddup, Rowan.
Yeah—you.
The girl who writes about survival
like it’s always beautiful.
The one who can describe heartbreak
down to the taste of the silence,
but still can’t say “I need help”
without flinching.

You write about wanting love
like you’re ready—
but are you?
Or are you still chasing ghosts
because they never got close enough
to disappoint you?

You dress your desires in velvet,
call it softness,
but it’s fear with lipstick
half the time, and you know it.

You say you want to be seen—
then blur yourself in metaphors
and call it art.
Call it safety.
Call it control.

So write the poem that exposes you.
Write the one you’re scared to show her.
Write the one that doesn’t beg
to be admired—
just understood.

Write the poem
that screams your real name—
not the pen name you use
when you’re afraid of being too much.

Write the ending
that doesn’t get ribbon-wrapped in hope
just to make the readers feel better.

No more metaphors.
No more fog.

Just you—
crying on your bedroom floor
and still fucking glowing.

Still here.
Still writing.

Now say it, Rowan.
Say the thing you’ve been cutting from every draft
because it hurts too much to leave in.

Or shuddup.

So you write about darkness
like it’s a lover that never leaves,
but how much of it
have you actually kissed on the mouth
without using a metaphor as a condom?

You romanticize your pain
like it makes you profound—
but maybe you’re just scared
that healing would make you boring.

You keep handing out lanterns
to guide people through your past
like you’re doing them a favor,
but when’s the last time
you turned the light inward?

You cry “transparency”
while hiding behind
vampires and Faeries,
as if putting wings on your truth
makes it less terrifying to hold.

You chase vulnerability
with poetic flair,
but can’t even say
“I want to be loved”
without cloaking it in gothic lace.

You call it art,
but maybe it’s a well-rehearsed performance—
tragedy in iambic pentameter,
tears choreographed
to land on the perfect line break.

And here’s the hardest part:
You’re terrified that one day
someone will read you so well
they’ll see the loneliness
you can’t write about
because it isn’t beautiful.

So shuddup, Poet.
Stop romanticizing your ache
just because it rhymes.
Stop bleeding prettily
when what you really need
is to scream.

Stop dressing up your truth
like a ghost bride
and pretending that’s honesty.

You say you write for survival—
then write like you mean it.
Write the things that make you sick.
Write the things you’d burn
if anyone else wrote them about you.
Write until you’re sobbing
over a keyboard at 3am
because finally—
finally—
it’s not performance.
It’s just you.
Naked.
Ugly.
Real.

Because maybe, Rowan,
you don’t need another poem.
Maybe you need to unwrite yourself
for once—
and see what survives.

You speak in metaphors
because real words burn your throat.
Every stanza a smokescreen—
call it craft, call it trauma,
either way, you’re dodging bullets
you shot at yourself.

You preach healing
like you’ve walked out the other side,
but we both know
you keep the exit locked
because the pain
is the only thing that stays.

You romanticize your scars
like they’re character arcs
and not exit wounds
you dressed in iambic pentameter
so no one would ask
why you’re still bleeding.

You say you write
to “help others feel seen,”
but admit it—
you want to be rescued
in rhyming couplets,
loved for the way you suffer pretty.

You drag your trauma out
like a dog-and-pony show,
then hate yourself
for being watched.

How many times
have you turned your own worth
into a plot twist?
How many poems have you written
that say "I'm okay"
with trembling hands?

You think honesty
means showing the bruise
but hiding the fist.

You let silence
take the mic
when it’s your own needs on stage—
write everyone else’s liberation
and leave yourself
in a locked verse with no key.

You call it self-expression,
but really?
It’s just survival
with better line breaks.

Shuddup, Poet.
You are not a martyr
because you made pain sound pretty.

You don’t get to call it brave
until you stop editing the truth
for palatability.

Stop dressing your loneliness
in gothic lace and calling it divine.
Stop baptizing your dysphoria
in metaphors
because “monster” feels safer
than “girl.”

You want freedom?
Write the ugly shit.
The needy shit.
The bitter, broken, blasphemous shit
that scares even you.

Then read it out loud.

Look yourself in the eye
and say:
“I deserve to be whole
without turning it into art first.”

Now that’s the last line.
Not the pretty one.
The one that hurts
but finally fucking heals.