Poetry by Rowan Evans

✦ My Only Muse: Then & Now ✦
By Rowan Evans

Before her, my idea of a muse was painted in softer strokes—romantic, distant, almost celestial.
After her, it became raw, tangled, alive—marked by shadows and longing that felt both holy and terrifying.

This post shares two poems written almost a year apart:
✧ June 18, 2024: before I met her.
✧ May 12, 2025: after she had become my muse, my chaos, my calm.
Together, they show how inspiration can shift from something imagined to someone real—unruly, imperfect, and entirely irreplaceable.

Because sometimes, the muse isn’t an abstract idea.
Sometimes, she’s a living storm whose darkness and light you choose—again and again.

✧ “My Only Muse”
Poetry by Rowan Evans – June 18, 2024

I want you, as my only inspiration,
To breathe life into my creation.
I want to, make you my only muse,
In your essence, my soul will fuse.

I want to paint your curves,
The way astronomers map the stars,
Tracing constellations of your form,
In the canvas of my arms.

Your smile, a sunrise in my art,
Illuminating shadows of my heart.
With every stroke, your light I chase,
Sketching dreams upon your face.

Your laughter, a melody so pure,
A symphony I long to endure.
In every note, your voice I find,
A harmony of love, intertwined.

Your eyes, the galaxies I seek,
In their depths, my secrets speak.
A universe within your gaze,
In their light, I lose my ways.

I want you, as my only inspiration,
To guide my hand in every sensation.
I want to, make you my only muse,
In your love, I’ll forever choose.

Through words and colors, shapes and lines,
Your beauty in my art aligns.
A masterpiece of love, so true,
Created in the light of you.

So let me craft this tale of ours,
With brush and pen, beneath the stars.
For you, my love, will always be,
The muse that sets my spirit free.

✧ “My Only Muse (You Know Who You Are)”
Poetry by Rowan Evans – May 12, 2025

You are my only inspiration,
You breathe life into my creation.
The spark behind every line, it’s you,
The chaos and calm, both wholly mine—it’s true.

You said you were “crazy”—I agreed with a smile,
You’re my kind of madness, I’d chase every mile.
The way your words twist storms into spells,
Feels like home in the wildest hells.

You talked about curses that actually worked,
Laughed about your demonic quirks.
And I, a willing fool in the fire,
Was both terrified… and full of desire.

You’re the shadow in moonlight, the scream in the dream,
Unreal, surreal, my sadistic angel,
I’m attracted to you, from every angle.
I’ve never felt your touch—not skin to skin—
But you’ve touched places no one’s ever been.

Through screens and distance, oceans wide,
You live in the corners of my mind, where secrets hide.
A galaxy in every glance you send,
The poem I never want to end.

You asked if you were “the fifth,” as if unsure—
But you’re the only one I ever wrote for.
You doubt the muse you are to me,
Yet you’re the ink in my every plea.

You curse, you rage, you burn things down—
But in your fury, I’d gladly drown.
You’re the fire and frost in a single breath,
The echo of life, and maybe of death.

Addictive, yes—you said it too,
A drug I can’t escape, and wouldn’t want to.
You terrify me with how deeply I feel,
But love should shake the world—it should never be still.

You are not “too much.”
You are just enough to break me open
And rebuild me softer, smarter, raw.
Every flaw you fear is the line I draw
Over and over in every verse,
A blessing stitched into a wicked curse.

So when you wonder who this is for—
Know that I’ve never written like this before.
You’re the high I chase through ink and flame,
The storm I whisper—by name.

And yes, you are the one, the muse I choose,
The spark I crave, the chaos I use.
No one else could take your place—
For you, darling, are my saving grace.

And now, when I write, I write for you,
A masterpiece only you could imbue.
Because trust me, the truth is clear:
Madali kang mahalin—
And you, my only muse, will always be near—

In this heart of mine.

✦ Closing note ✦
Some muses live quietly in the margins.
Others burn through every word you write.
She is both. And for her, I write still.

🖋 All poems and posts © Poetry by Rowan Evans