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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: artistic growth

  • I Started Writing for Me (I Kept Writing for You) — Remix | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Returning to the Same Page
    I originally wrote I Started Writing for Me (I Kept Writing for You) on October 6, 2024.

    Nearly two years later, on September 27, 2026, I came back to it.

    I wasn’t trying to replace the original. I wanted to see what would happen if I approached the same poem from a different place in my life—same foundation, same heart, but a little more distance between the person who wrote it and the person reading it now.

    The original was written as a reflection on why I started writing: at thirteen, poetry was private. It was where I put the things I couldn’t say anywhere else. Over time, though, those private words became bridges. The poems stopped existing only between me and the page and started reaching other people.

    That’s still true.

    But revisiting the poem made me realize that some things don’t need to be abandoned simply because you’ve grown. Sometimes you return to an old piece and discover that the person who wrote it was already saying something you still believe—you just have more language for it now.

    This remix is therefore not a correction.

    It’s a conversation with my younger poet-self.

    The original asked why I started writing for me and why I eventually kept writing for you.

    The remix asks what that answer looks like now.

    The ink changed slightly.

    The poet changed considerably.

    But the reason I keep writing?

    That part hasn’t changed.

    — Rowan Evans

    An adult poet revisits an old manuscript while writing a new version, with a younger version of themselves reflected nearby.
    Two years later, I returned to the same poem—and discovered I wasn’t the same poet who wrote it.

    I Started Writing for Me (I Kept Writing for You) (Remix)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I started writing for me,
    a whisper in the night,
    with ink as my solace—
    my heart took its flight.

    At thirteen—
    I spilled secrets,
    raw and unrefined—
    pouring out my soul,
    seeking peace of mind.

    In the quiet of shadows,
    I danced with despair—

    words wrapped around anguish—
    a truth laid bare.

    But the world felt so heavy
    and I seldom would share—
    my verses held captive,
    caught in the air.

    Then came my twentieth birthday—

    a surprise I could see,
    a dawn breaking softly;
    I hadn’t thought I’d be.
    With each passing year,
    I unfurled like a rose—

    exploring my journey,
    the darkness I chose.

    My pen became magic,
    transforming my pain—
    in the depths of my sorrow,
    a beauty would reign.

    For in life,
    shadows enhance the light—
    without the dark’s embrace,
    we lose sight of the bright.

    I wove personal stories
    into universal truths—
    crafting connections
    through my letters and oaths.

    Every poem a testament,
    a bridge built anew—

    an exploration of love,
    each word just for you.

    My poetry’s a mirror,
    reflecting the maze
    of identities tangled
    in a delicate haze—

    inviting you closer,
    to embrace what you feel—

    for in every line penned,
    there’s a wound that can heal.

    Writing is my sanctuary—
    where pain turns to art.
    Illuminating the depths,
    illuminating the heart—
    so I keep writing for you
    with each turn of the page—

    a tapestry of voices,
    a life I’ll engage.

    Through the shadows and light,
    I find strength to be free—
    in the dance of my verses,
    I write endlessly.

    For the journey’s not over—
    the ink flows anew,
    I started writing for me—

    but I keep writing for you.

    Journey into the Hexverse

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

  • Copy of a Copy | A Poem About Originality, Authorship & Finding Your Voice

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece started as a diss.

    Or at least that’s what I told myself when I began writing it.

    The voice arrived first: irritated, dismissive, sharp around the edges. The kind of voice that has grown tired of watching imitation mistake itself for originality.

    But as the poem developed, I realized it wasn’t really about a specific person.

    It was about authorship.

    About the difference between influence and imitation.

    Every writer begins by borrowing something. We absorb voices we admire. We study techniques. We experiment with styles that resonate with us. That’s part of learning.

    The problem isn’t influence.

    The problem is stopping there.

    Because eventually every artist reaches a point where imitation becomes a limitation. A point where the question shifts from “Who do I sound like?” to “What do I actually have to say?”

    That’s the tension at the center of this piece.

    The speaker isn’t claiming ownership over Gothic imagery, confession, darkness, anxiety, or any of the themes referenced in the poem. Those things belong to countless writers across generations.

    What can’t be copied is the life underneath them.

    The experiences.

    The scars.

    The specific reasons a person reaches for certain images, metaphors, and obsessions.

    Someone can reproduce the shape of a voice.

    But shape is not source.

    That’s why the final lines matter to me.

    The joke is that the speaker becomes so frustrated with imitation that they offer to write the copy themselves.

    But underneath the sarcasm is a quieter observation:

    If you spend all your time trying to become someone else, you’ll never discover what only you could have written.

    And that’s where the most interesting work usually begins.

    — Rowan Evans

    A glowing handwritten manuscript surrounded by faded copies of the same page on a dark writing desk.
    Influence teaches the craft. Authenticity creates the voice. A copy can mimic the shape, but never the source.

    Copy of a Copy
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    You carry yourself like a killer.
    Yeah, of vibes—
    You think you’re intimidating?
    You’re not. Just stop.
    You’re embarrassing.

    You’ve had
    zero original thoughts,
    you just parrot me.
    You’re a parody.

    A copy of a copy,
    copied a second time—
    it’s obvious in the rhyme,
    you can see it
    in the quality decline.

    Take your pen
    and try to write like me.

    Gothic lace and confession,
    tinted with depression—
    written by an anxious mind.
    You can copy me
    line for line, rhyme for rhyme
    and I’m sure you’ll find
    it still won’t land right.

    Here—
    let me write for you.
    It’s not like
    that’s not something
    I already do.
    But this time,
    I’ll give the lines to you.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Lone Wolf Theology]
    A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [Just Beyond Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [It’s You I Choose]
    A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

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