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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: confessional poetry

  • Funeral for a Thirty-Six-Year-Old | A Gothic Birthday Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is a birthday rite, not a reckoning.

    I’ve always treated birthdays less like milestones and more like ceremonial thresholds—moments to shed a skin, laugh at the ghosts behind me, and step forward with intention. Funeral for a Thirty-Six-Year-Old isn’t about mourning age; it’s about staging its death so something sharper, freer, and more self-aware can take its place.

    Thirty-six feels less like getting older and more like arriving. I’m no longer interested in quiet gratitude or graceful humility—I wanted pageantry, drama, and a little irreverence. This piece is me honoring survival with style, embracing the absurdity of time, and celebrating the fact that I’m still here, still dangerous, still writing.

    If this is a funeral, it’s one where the guest of honor very much refuses to stay dead.

    A gothic figure rising from a velvet coffin in a moonlit mausoleum, symbolizing a theatrical celebration of turning thirty-six.
    Thirty-six isn’t an ending—it’s a resurrection with better lighting.

    Funeral for a Thirty-Six-Year-Old
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I rise from my velvet coffin,
    for birthdays are sacred rituals of vanity,
    thirty-six too perfect for a quiet exit.

    Cobwebs kiss my ankles
    as I stride the mausoleum of my life,
    counting skeletons I’ve danced with
    and candles I’ve lit in the name of style.

    The moon winks at me through shattered panes,
    celestial bodies admire
    a drama queen in full bloom—
    not wilted, not weary, theatrically immortal.

    I sip absinthe from a skull-shaped chalice,
    grinning at the reaper waiting impatiently,
    his scythe tapping to the rhythm of my heartbeat—
    shrug. He’s never been my type.

    Mirrors whisper secrets of my youthful decay,
    I laugh—lines are suggestions,
    wrinkles invitations to flair,
    every grey hair a medal for surviving
    without losing my mind… entirely.

    Birthday cake, molten lava,
    frosted with sarcasm, glittering regrets.
    I devour it with a ceremonial fork,
    toasting myself—
    who else deserves this gothic pageantry?

    The clock ticks, and I bow to time,
    not in surrender, but in acknowledgment:
    I am older, wiser, and infinitely more unhinged.
    let the world tremble at my theatricality—
    I have arrived.

    Candles gutter. Shadows shiver.
    In the mirror’s reflection, I wink—
    thirty-six has never looked this dangerous,
    this decadent, this deliciously insane.

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

  • Back to Darkseid — A Poem About Chaos, Identity, and the Mind

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem started as play.

    I wasn’t trying to be deep or careful — I was letting my brain sprint, letting pop culture, mythology, and intrusive thoughts collide on the page. Comics, villains, alter egos, masks — all the familiar metaphors we use when our minds feel too loud to live in quietly.

    What surprised me wasn’t the darkness, but the balance. This isn’t a descent — it’s a return with awareness. Standing in the light doesn’t mean pretending the shadows don’t exist. It means no longer fearing them.

    This is what it feels like when poetry stops being a tool and starts being a force — when the ink takes over, and you let it.

    Surreal illustration of a figure in shadow with ink tendrils rising up their spine, symbolizing chaos, identity, and creative obsession.
    Where chaos, identity, and ink collide.

    Back to Darkseid
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I walk in,
    ready to rock
    like a shock
    to the system.

    Watch me
    ghost ride the whip,
    hit you with the
    penance stare.

    Watch as you become
    hyper aware
    of every misdeed,
    and every sin seeps
    into the veins.

    It circulates
    until it hits
    the brain.

    Lights out.

    Silence.

    My noggin’s
    an asylum,
    I’m sick in the head.
    Coin flip of fate,
    I’m two-faced
    with my joker’s thoughts.

    I’m a dark knight,
    on a dark night—
    fighting the monsters
    that my mind creates.

    Don’t try to figure me out.
    I’m an enigma, a riddle
    with no answer.

    A twisted harlequin
    in a garden
    made by Ivy.
    Each petal unfurls,
    guiding—
    leading me back
    from the edge.

    Now I’m standing in the light,
    back to Darkseid—
    I no longer fear
    Apocalypse.

    Watch my ink
    twist into tendrils.
    Watch as they
    wrap around,
    and creep up
    my spine like venom.
    Watch as poetry
    slowly,
    takes over
    my mind.

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

  • Sprawling Thoughts – A Poem About Writing, Confession, and Survival

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ Author’s Note ✦

    These words spill like blood and ink. They explore fear, shame, and the weight of confession. Step forward only if you feel steady.

    Your breath, your life, and your heart are sacred. If these words stir difficult feelings, pause, breathe, and reach for light, support, or care. You are never truly alone in the dark.

    Resources if needed:

    US: 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Call or text 988 | https://988lifeline.org

    UK: Samaritans – Call 116 123 | https://www.samaritans.org

    Australia: Lifeline – Call 13 11 14 | https://www.lifeline.org.au

    Canada: Talk Suicide Canada – Call 1-833-456-4566 | https://talksuicide.ca

    Global: Befrienders Worldwide – https://www.befrienders.org

    An open notebook on a dark desk, ink spreading across the page like constellations, lit by a single candle in a shadowed room.
    Where ink becomes confession and scars learn how to shine.

    Sprawling Thoughts
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I put the pen to paper
    like a gun to my head.
    Pull the trigger,
    write the first line—
    watch the ink splatter,
    like brain matter—
    as thoughts sprawl,
    and crawl
    across
    the page.

    This is what
    confession feels like,
    when I write.
    I pour
    my heart out
    on the page.
    The fear and shame,
    I give it shape,
    I give it a name.

    I dance with my demons,
    and map my scars
    like astronomers
    mapping stars.

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

  • Etched in Memory | A Poem About Restraint, Truth, and the Weight of Words

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem came from the space between impulse and consequence—the moment when truth is sharp enough to wound, and restraint becomes a form of survival. Etched in Memory is about knowing exactly how much damage your words can do, and choosing silence not because you are wrong, but because you are precise.

    Some of us learn early that a look can say too much, that honesty—when fully unleashed—doesn’t fade. It marks. It lingers. It becomes permanent.

    This piece is a quiet confession of power held back, of violence softened into poetry, of restraint learned the hard way. Not because the truth wasn’t there—but because it would have lasted.

    — Rowan Evans

    A shadowed figure looking away as dark ink bleeds from their eyes, symbolizing restraint, silence, and words etched into memory.
    Some truths don’t need to be spoken to be permanent.

    Etched in Memory
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    My eyes learned restraint—
    before my mouth ever did.
    So I wouldn’t betray myself
    when I talked my shit.

    It was all—
    facts (fax), no printer.
    I did not
    speak a lie.

    But I
    would try
    not to speak at all.

    Because my eyes
    learned restraint—
    before my mouth ever did.

    Yet, they would
    always
    push me.

    Until…

    I would
    poetically
    dissect them—

    methodically
    dismember,
    until they
    remember.
    My words
    etched
    in memory.

    But my eyes
    learned restraint—
    before my mouth ever did.

    So I look away…

    to stop this shit.

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

  • 1-4-3 — A Poem About Choosing Love Without Losing Yourself

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is about safety—not the kind that cages, but the kind that invites you to stay. It’s about finding someone who doesn’t demand your strength or survival instincts, only your honesty. Someone who makes asking for help feel like an act of trust rather than surrender.

    1-4-3 is a quiet confession of rootedness. Of choosing presence over flight. Of love that doesn’t chase or trap, but steadies.

    Sometimes the bravest thing we do
    is stop running—and stay.

    — Rowan Evans

    A poetic dusk street scene with a figure standing still, symbolizing emotional safety, choice, and rooted love.
    Sometimes love isn’t about needing someone—it’s about choosing to stay.

    1-4-3
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    1-4-3 My Muse Avenue,
    where I dwell—
    where the words swell.
    Girl, you don’t understand;
    you inspire my ink well.

    When I feel lost,
    and in need of help,
    it’s you I turn to.
    Not because I expect you to fix me—
    simply because
    you make it safe enough to ask.

    And that’s no small feat,
    because fear
    used to run my feet.
    Any time I felt safe,
    any flicker of hope in my chest,
    my feet would begin to move.

    But this time?
    They stay planted—
    firm, like roots,
    unwilling to move.
    Because you…

    you make it so easy
    to want to stay.

    Mahal kita, mahal ko—
    tahanan ko.

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

  • I Don’t Need You (I Actually Don’t Need You Version) | Radical Autonomy Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This version removes the turn entirely. There is no reaching, no choosing, no ache dressed up as desire. It is a statement of self-sufficiency, not as armor, but as fact.
    This poem exists for moments when autonomy is the truth—and that truth needs no softening.

    Same poem.
    No turn this time.

    — Rowan Evans

    Solitary figure standing calmly in soft light, symbolizing emotional independence, self‑sufficiency, and quiet strength.
    “I arrived here intact—assembled by my own hands.”
    — Rowan Evans, I Don’t Need You (I Actually Don’t Need You Version)

    I Don’t Need You
    (I Actually Don’t Need You Version)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I don’t need you.
    I can breathe on my own—
    lungs have done it for decades
    without asking permission.

    I don’t need you.
    I can sleep alone,
    learn the shape of empty sheets,
    make peace with the cold side of the bed.

    I don’t need you
    to make me whole.
    I arrived here intact—
    scarred, yes,
    but assembled by my own hands.

    I don’t need your voice
    to steady me,
    your name
    to keep the dark from biting.
    I’ve survived worse silences
    than your absence.

    I don’t need you
    to save me.
    I am not drowning.
    I am not broken.
    I am not waiting
    to be rescued.

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

    [I Don’t Need You] – Original
    A poem about choosing love from a place of wholeness—celebrating independence, intimacy, and the power of saying “I don’t need you, but I want you.”

    [I Don’t Need You] – Dangerous
    “I don’t need you. I breathe. I rise, unbroken, unbent. Yet still, I choose you—dangerous, alive, and all in.” A fiery meditation on independence, desire, and choosing love from a place of strength.

  • I Don’t Need You (Dangerous Version) | Neo-Gothic Confessional Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This is the same truth, spoken closer to the flame.
    Not a need. A choice—made with full awareness of the risk.

    Same poem.
    Louder pulse.

    — Rowan Evans

    Lone figure standing under a stormy sky, surrounded by swirling sparks, symbolizing independence, intensity, and passionate desire.
    “I choose you. Unbroken, unbent, and fully alive.” — Rowan Evans, I Don’t Need You (Dangerous Version)

    I Don’t Need You
    (Dangerous Version)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I don’t need you.
    I breathe.
    I sleep.
    I rise, unbroken, unbent.

    I don’t need you.
    I am fire in the quiet,
    a storm that bends no sky.

    And yet–
    I want you.
    As witness.
    As echo.
    As the one who knows my chaos
    and calls it home.

    I could walk alone,
    and I would.
    But I don’t want to.
    I choose you.

    I don’t need you.
    But I want you so badly,
    it twists my ribs,
    spins my blood,
    sets my spine alight.

    I don’t need you.
    I will survive without you.
    But I don’t want to.
    I choose you.
    Again.
    Again.
    Even knowing the fire.

    I don’t need you.
    But if this is love,
    then I am all in.

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

    [I Don’t Need You] – Original
    A poem about choosing love from a place of wholeness—celebrating independence, intimacy, and the power of saying “I don’t need you, but I want you.”

  • I Don’t Need You – A Poem About Chosen Love and Independence

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    To the reader:

    This poem is a meditation on choice, autonomy, and intimacy. It’s about standing whole, unshaken, and still choosing to love someone—not because we need them, but because we want them. The lines explore that delicate balance between independence and desire, between survival and longing.

    It is a celebration of being complete in oneself while recognizing that closeness, when chosen freely, amplifies life rather than diminishes it.
    This piece is for anyone who has ever loved fiercely while remaining unbroken.

    — Rowan Evans

    “Silhouetted figure in twilight holding a glowing thread toward a distant figure, representing choice, independence, and intimate connection.”
    ‘I Don’t Need You’ – Choosing love from strength, not need. A poem by Rowan Evans.

    I Don’t Need You
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I don’t need you.
    I can breathe on my own—
    lungs have done it for decades
    without asking permission.

    I don’t need you.
    I can sleep alone,
    learn the shape of empty sheets,
    make peace with the cold side of the bed.

    I don’t need you
    to make me whole.
    I arrived here intact—
    scarred, yes,
    but assembled by my own hands.

    I don’t need your voice
    to steady me,
    your name
    to keep the dark from biting.
    I’ve survived worse silences
    than your absence.

    I don’t need you
    to save me.
    I am not drowning.
    I am not broken.
    I am not waiting
    to be rescued.

    But—

    I don’t want to breathe
    without you knowing the rhythm of it.
    I don’t want sleep
    that doesn’t reach for you
    out of habit, out of hope.

    I don’t want a life
    where your laughter
    isn’t stitched into my days,
    where love is only something
    I prove I can live without.

    I can.
    I know that.

    But I don’t want to.

    I want you—
    not as oxygen,
    not as shelter,
    not as a missing piece—

    but as the one
    I choose
    while standing steady,
    while whole,
    while free.

    I don’t need you.

    I just
    want you
    here.

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

  • 2026: A Confessional Flame — Neo-Gothic Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    2026: A Confessional Flame is my manifesto for the year ahead—a declaration that I will not shrink, apologize, or temper my fire. This poem is for anyone who has felt their inner chaos, their flustered love, and their impossible hope collide with life, only to turn it all into creation. It celebrates the contradictions, the failures, the stumbles, and the moments of exalted clarity that makes us fully human.

    This is me stepping into 2026 as the poet I have always been: unapologetic, contradictory, luminous, and uncontainable. I will write, I will love, I will defy, and I will rise from every ash left behind.

    — Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans-style poet standing in a twilight cityscape, holding a glowing pen like a torch, surrounded by swirling papers, flames, and ethereal sparks; a neo-gothic, mystical scene.
    Entering 2026 with fire, ink, and a pen as a torch—Rowan Evans lights the year with unrelenting poetry and confession.

    2026: A Confessional Flame
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I walk into this year
    like a wildfire with a pen,
    smirking at the calendar
    as if it dares to try me.

    Last year left ashes in my hair,
    but I turned them into ink,
    carved confessions into the walls,
    kissed chaos like it was home.

    I am still the heart that bleeds,
    the mind that spins,
    the shield that laughs in the face of storms,
    the child who throws Pokéballs at the universe
    and watches lightning ricochet.

    I will stumble.
    I will falter.
    I will fall.
    And every time, I rise—
    writing liminal static into gold,
    flustered love into confession,
    every impossible hope into fire.

    2026—watch closely:
    I am the neo-gothic heretic,
    the luminous fool,
    the poet who refuses humility—
    when the world whispers “shrink.”

    I shout: “No.”

    I exist in contradiction,
    I am the chaos you didn’t plan for,
    the poem you can’t stop reading,
    the confession that refuses to end.

    So here’s my vow:
    I will love hard.
    I will write harder.
    I will fight Gods for migraines
    and light stoves like they’re suns.

    I am Rowan Evans.
    I am flustered, feral, unstoppable.
    And 2026?
    Try to keep up.

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

  • Crossroads of Flame – A Poem About Choosing the Unknown | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Crossroads of Flame was born from a moment of choosing discomfort over safety, and creation over silence. It reflects the turning point between who I was and who I am becoming—not only as a poet, but as the many voices I carry within me. Roo, Hex, B.D., and I each walk different inner landscapes, but all of us share the same ember: the belief that the unknown is worth stepping into, even when it burns.

    This poem marks a new phase of intention. A deliberate path forward. A reminder that comfort is quiet, but purpose is loud—and I am choosing to listen.

    — Rowan Evans

    Poetic gothic illustration of a lone figure at a crossroads under a twilight sky, facing a wild burning path toward the unknown.
    A crossroads beneath a burning sky—the moment intention becomes transformation.

    Crossroads of Flame
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand at a crossroads—
    two paths stretch beneath a waning sky,
    one worn and familiar, lined with shadows I know,
    the other narrow, veiled in bramble and whispered risk.

    The first hums a lullaby of comfort,
    soft, forgiving, predictable.
    I could walk it blindfolded,
    count the cracks beneath my feet,
    and know I will not falter.

    But the second calls in a voice I barely recognize,
    a tremor beneath the wind,
    a hint of fire beneath frost.
    It asks nothing of me—yet demands all:
    my attention, my courage, my deliberate steps.

    I carve my own instead.
    Through tangled shrubs and corridors of darkened wood,
    I trace a path that no map can hold,
    listening to the pulse beneath my ribs,
    the hum that answers back:
    Roo, Hex, B.D., and me—
    four voices intertwined,
    four flames in one vessel,
    guiding, guarding, urging.

    Alone—yet never alone—
    I step carefully, feeling each stone,
    each thorn, each sigh of wind through the leaves.
    The safe path still beckons behind me,
    a ghost of ease I might have chosen.
    But the wild one waits, insistent,
    its promise stitched with challenge
    and the weight of things I have yet to become.

    I am the storm and the calm,
    the knife that severs hesitation,
    the hand that steadies,
    the ember that refuses to die.
    I am the whisper in the dark corridors,
    the laughter in the bramble,
    the ache that drives me forward.

    Tonight I choose not comfort.
    Tonight I choose intent.
    Tonight I choose to step beyond what I know,
    into the narrow, the jagged, the luminous unknown,
    and let the path unfold beneath my careful flame.

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

    Leave a comment and tell me which path you would choose.