Some of it looks like standing still while the world insists you should become someone easier to digest.
This year, I’m not becoming new. I’m becoming certain.
Not all beginnings need reinvention.
No Resolutions by Rowan Evans
Happy New Year.
I’m not entering the new year with resolutions.
I’m entering it with boundaries, clarity, and a spine.
I will still write what burns.
I will still refuse to be neat.
I will still love loudly, witness fiercely,
and walk away from anything that asks me to be smaller.
If that disappoints you—
good.
I’m not here to be improved.
I’m here to be exactly myself.
This piece came from the frustration of being misunderstood — from people assuming I give attention freely or that I’m drowning in affection I don’t actually receive. The truth is, I love deliberately. I give slowly. I’m intentional with my emotional presence, and I’m careful with my heart. This poem is a reminder that not all love is loud or scattered; some of us choose where we pour ourselves, and it’s never accidental.
A body carved from intention — slow to give, deliberate in love, and shaped by quiet emotional truth.
Carved From Intention Poetry by Rowan Evans
It’s kind of wild how
some people assume,
I’ve got attention from
every direction.
Like I’ve got love
being thrown at me.
But that’s not true,
and even if it was—
it wouldn’t matter much.
Because love to me,
doesn’t mean
what love means
to them.
It’s even weirder how
people assume
that I just give attention.
Like I don’t do
what I do
with any real thought
or intention.
They swear I’m drowning
in affection,
as if every soft word
ever spoken near me
belongs to me.
But I don’t scatter pieces
of myself like confetti—
I give slowly, deliberately,
to the few my soul
bends toward.
They think I’m easy to reach,
but I’m not.
I’m cautious.
I’m careful.
I’m carved from intentions
people rarely notice.
Maybe that’s why
the attention they imagine
feels hollow to me—
it’s not the kind I want,
not the kind I give,
not the kind I’d stay for.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 