Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

Some poems feel like introductions. Others feel like reintroductions.

Again is a little of both.

I wanted to return to the page with the accumulated pieces of everything that came before it—the old selves, the old wounds, the confidence, the anger, the jokes, the metaphors, and all the strange little pieces that somehow became a voice.

There are plenty of familiar influences and references woven through this one, but underneath all of that is something much simpler: I keep writing because I haven’t reached the end of what I have to say.

And maybe that’s the real lesson here.

You don’t have to get it perfect the first time. You don’t even have to know exactly what you’re doing.

You just have to put the words down.

Then, when you’re finished—

do it again.

— Rowan Evans

Again
Poetry by Rowan Evans

Hi, hello—
it’s me again, the poet with a pen,
the poet playing pretend again—
thinking they are important,
back from the end again—
st-st-stutter step,
rewind, no fin again—
lines running wide from my mind like
the ink running from my pen again,
feeling caged, locked in the pen again.

Victor Frankenstein of rhyme,
metaphors pieced together again—
like body parts attached, hap-hazard,
spark to the heart, become a light in the dark again—
like different pieces of the Avengers assembled,
the heart of Stark and Wanda’s chaos,
mind of Vision, got me feeling incredible again.

I built my confidence from a box of scraps,
slapped together in a dim lit cave—
and I did it all with this resting bitch face,
in the middle of my dim-wit phase—
I wasn’t wise yet—I hadn’t lived life yet.
I was a human becoming,
unaware they were becoming—
a motherfucking problem.

In ink and flame, I became
a master of translating pain—
and uncaging rage,
holding on to the past—
while continuing to change,
I became every version of me—
accumulated pieces, every rung on the ladder,
I used to be sane, went a little Madder—
and that’s why I’m as crazy the Hatter.

I’m a pre-planner—
already wrote the epilogue to my story,
I’m playing 4D-Chess with my legacy—
I already know what comes next after me,
so after I’m long gone—
my thoughts won’t stop, no sudden drop,
wisdom will still flow from me—
like water from the spring,
meant to bring new life—
to teach you to use yours right.

You got thoughts—just write,
don’t worry if it lands right
or if the rhymes tight,
I’d be more worried—does it carry weight?
Does it convey everything I want to say?

Is every stone in the journey laid—
every path paved—

then when you’re done—

do it—

again.

Journey into the Hexverse

[I Hate Me Better]
What happens when someone tries to hate you but discovers you’ve already been doing it longer and better? I Hate Me Better turns twenty years of self-doubt, self-directed insults, and poetic resilience into a darkly funny challenge to anyone lining up to become the next hater.

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