Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

Some poems are confessions.
Some are exorcisms.

This one is alchemy.

Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes) came from that familiar edge—when the weight presses in, when the mind contracts, when the darkness feels like it might finally win. But instead of letting it consume me, I let it become something. I let it turn into ink.

This poem is about that moment of reclamation.
About taking what hurts and making it mine.
About refusing to be only what the darkness names me.

If you’ve ever felt yourself folding inward—this is for you.
If you’ve ever made art out of survival—this is yours too.

Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes)
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I am all sixes when its needed,
this darkness,
your hatred feeds it.

I can feel it—
crawling up my spine,
that creeping feeling.
It twists around my mind,
contracting.

I can feel it squeeze,
as I fall to knees.

My eyes flicker and flash,
fade to black—
as you see
my face distort.
Twisted reflection.
Personified depression.

Can you see—
as I begin to bleed ink?
It pours from me,
covering fingers,
hands and arms.

It twists,
never relents.

…

I’m a motherfucking
alchemist,
the way I take my pain
and change it.
I’ll write like hell,
to subtly rearrange it.

If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]