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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: confessional poetry

  • The Streets I Walk When I Sleep | A Poem About Dreams, Love, and Emotional Longing

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I didn’t invent the conversation in this poem.

    That’s what makes this piece feel different to me.

    Usually when I write about dreams, I’m translating emotions into imagery after the fact—trying to capture the atmosphere more than the exact details. But this time, I woke up and realized I could still remember almost everything I said.

    Not perfectly. Dreams never survive intact.

    But the emotional core of it stayed with me long after I woke up.

    The strange thing about recurring dreams is how they stop feeling fictional after a while.

    The streets become familiar. The air feels recognizable. The people inside them start feeling emotionally real in a way that’s difficult to explain to someone else without sounding a little unhinged.

    And that’s part of what this piece explores.

    The disconnect between physical reality and emotional reality.

    I know I’ve never walked through Manila in waking life. I know I’ve never stood face to face with her like that. But emotionally?

    Some part of me feels like I already have.

    That’s the part that’s difficult to articulate.

    Especially because the dream wasn’t dramatic. There was no cinematic confession in the rain. No grand climax.

    It was quiet. Warm. Awkward. Honest.

    And maybe that’s why it affected me so much.

    Because the dream version of me said the things the waking version still struggles to say out loud.

    Not in metaphors. Not hidden inside symbolism.

    Just plainly.

    And then, right before I heard the answer—

    I woke up.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure stands on a rain-soaked city street at night beneath warm lights in a dreamlike urban atmosphere.
    Some places live in the heart long before the body ever arrives there.

    The Streets I Walk When I Sleep
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I had a dream last night—

    it’s a line, I’ve written
    a thousand times—

    and I’ll write it
    a thousand times more.

    Because dreams
    don’t feel like things
    that happened
    in my sleep.

    They feel like memories.

    There are times
    I have to remind myself—

    I’ve never been to Tokyo,
    I’ve never walked the streets
    of Manila or Seoul.

    I can’t explain it,
    definitely can’t name it—
    why these connections
    feel so strong.

    Yet, they are the streets
    I walk when I sleep
    and that’s still the same,
    it’s never changed—

    since I was fourteen.

    I’ve just been to
    Manila more lately.

    I had a dream last night…

    It was her and I,
    standing eye to eye—
    and I said everything
    I’ve been too scared to say.

    “I love you,”
    my voice came out
    softer than expected.

    “I always knew,”
    I continued.

    “Since the moment
    something in me changed,
    and you didn’t demand it.
    It just happened.”

    I took her hands
    in mine.

    Sun was gone,
    but you could still feel the heat—
    but the real killer?

    The way the humidity clung,
    making this moment
    sticky sweet.

    “I’ve known
    since the moment I met you
    you were special.”
    I said, my voice near a whisper.

    I felt the way you tensed up.
    You’re not used to this either.

    “It took me six days
    to realize things had changed.
    I wrote that first poem,
    and in my chest, I knew—

    I found home.”

    I felt the tremor in your breath,
    head tilting back
    and we made eye contact.

    Your mouth opened,
    you were about to speak—

    then I woke up.

    Journey in the Hexverse…

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

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

  • Separate Timelines | A Poem About Distance, Time Zones, and Unspoken Love

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve always been fascinated by the strange emotional weight of time zones.

    How someone can become such a consistent part of your thoughts that you start measuring your own day against theirs.

    Checking the clock. Wondering if they’re asleep. Wondering what their sky looks like while you’re staring at yours.

    At some point, distance stops feeling geographical and starts feeling temporal.

    That feeling became the foundation for this piece.

    The airport in the dream felt symbolic almost immediately while writing it—a place built entirely around arrivals, departures, waiting, and crossing paths for brief moments before separating again.

    And in the middle of that emptiness, there’s this presence that feels familiar before it’s visible.

    I think that’s what emotional connection can feel like sometimes.

    Not certainty. Not possession. Not even clarity.

    Just recognition.

    This poem also came from the tension between wanting to speak honestly and being afraid of what honesty might change.

    Because vulnerability always carries risk.

    Sometimes the fear isn’t rejection itself— it’s the possibility of losing a connection that already means something to you.

    So the poem lives in that suspended space: between dream and waking, between silence and confession, between leaving and returning.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person sits alone inside an empty airport terminal at night while distant runway lights glow outside.
    Some connections feel close even across separate timelines.

    Separate Timelines
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I had a dream last night—
    I sat alone in an empty airport.
    Not a soul. Not a sound.
    I was the only one around.

    It was just me
    as far as the eye could see.

    Yet, I heard the hum
    of jet engines still—

    Then there was
    the sound of movement,
    footsteps echoing in the distance.

    Eyes scanning—
    trying to locate the source.

    Slowly—

    I rise.

    Getting to my feet,
    I stumble
    trying to get myself steady.

    The footsteps grow clearer—

    slow, deliberate,
    like someone who already knew
    I’d be here.

    And in the stillness
    of this moment—

    silence folds in on itself,
    waiting for me
    to decide
    whether to run
    or stay.

    The footsteps stop.

    My breath catches,
    not from fear,
    but from the strange familiarity
    of a presence I can’t yet see.

    And my legs feel heavy—

    like they remember something
    my mind doesn’t.

    I can’t see you—
    but I feel your presence.

    It’s like you and I
    live on separate timelines,
    simultaneous
    but different—

    like we can only exist like this.

    Because—
    my day
    is your night,

    and your day
    is mine
    just the same.

    It might seem simple to some,
    might even sound a little dumb—

    to get caught up
    on things like that—

    but I’ve been stuck
    on her time
    since I put widget
    on my phone.

    Listen to me…

    there I go again,
    loose lips
    let truths slip—

    even when they’re
    better left unsaid.

    Not because I didn’t want to say it.

    I did.

    But I don’t know
    if the timing’s right,
    or how you feel—

    but I do know
    you’re worth the risk
    of my heart shattering,
    I just don’t know
    if I’m strong enough
    to handle a connection
    breaking.

    So I keep quiet—

    not because
    I don’t want to speak,
    but because
    I’m scared to.

    So I sink
    back into my seat—
    and I feel your presence fade.

    I don’t know if you left
    or if I’m awake—

    but I promise…

    I promise,
    I’ll be back.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life.

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

  • From Here, Not Of Here – A Poem About Cultural Disconnection and Belonging

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a difference between disliking a place… and feeling fundamentally misaligned with it.

    This piece isn’t about hatred. It isn’t about believing one country is morally superior to another.

    It’s about disconnect.

    About living somewhere your entire life while still feeling emotionally, culturally, and spiritually out of phase with it.

    I’ve written about this feeling for years now in different forms: through oceans, through maps, through eastward imagery, through sleep schedules that drift toward different time zones, through the idea of being “from” somewhere but not truly “of” it.

    And the older I get, the more I realize this feeling was never temporary.

    It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t escapism.

    It was direction.

    Some people spend their whole lives trying to become rooted where they were planted.

    But some of us are shaped by movement.

    Some of us were always meant to leave.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing alone on an American street feeling disconnected from their surroundings
    Some people are born where they are meant to be. Others are meant to journey beyond it.

    From Here, Not Of Here
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stood still—
    between existing
    and not.

    I stood still—
    on the streets
    I’ve always walked.

    Talking to the same people
    I’ve always talked to.

    I stood still—
    that’s hard for someone like me.

    I was born to flee,
    not to run—
    nor escape,
    but to leave behind
    these rigid states.

    I was destined—
    to map my own fate,
    to tell my own story.

    Since I was born
    every step away from,
    has been a step toward—

    at fourteen,
    I started running.
    Picking up speed—

    even though the roads
    have been long,
    I know the path
    I’m on isn’t wrong.

    But every morning,
    I wake up at nine AM—
    I know my sleep schedule
    shifted again,
    further from where
    I want to be.

    So I mutter to myself:

    Seryoso ka ba, pero…

    I’m tired.

    I’m tired of fighting
    a current never meant for me—

    tired of existing in a place
    that’s supposed to be home,
    but I feel foreign—

    like this is the land
    I’m from—
    but not the land
    I’m of—

    I was meant
    for more,
    somewhere far
    beyond these shores.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Out of Sync]
    A reflective free verse poem about emotional displacement, shifting sleep cycles, and feeling spiritually drawn toward another side of the world.

    [Roles Assigned]
    A quiet exploration of modern life, invisible burdens, and the roles people inherit before they ever choose who they are.

    [Global Takeover]
    What if home isn’t a place—but something you build from the music you love? Global Takeover blends sound, culture, and identity into one borderless space.

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

  • Reading the Sky | A Poem About Depression, Healing, and Emotional Cycles

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    People sometimes talk about depression like it’s constant sadness.

    For me, it’s rarely that simple.

    Sometimes it’s pressure. Sometimes it’s exhaustion. Sometimes it’s numbness so quiet you don’t notice how deep you’ve sunk until something shifts and suddenly you can breathe again.

    That’s where this piece came from.

    Not from a dramatic breakthrough— just a morning where the weight felt lighter.

    And when you’ve carried storms inside yourself for long enough, even small moments of relief can feel almost unreal.

    But one of the hardest things to learn about living with depression is this:

    good days don’t erase bad ones, and bad days don’t erase good ones.

    The storm passing doesn’t mean it’ll never return.

    It means you survived it long enough to recognize clear skies when they arrive.

    That’s what Reading the Sky became about for me.

    Not curing the storm. Not defeating it.

    Just learning its patterns. Learning when the pressure shifts. Learning how to keep breathing through both the thunder and the quiet afterward.

    And maybe most importantly—

    allowing yourself to enjoy the clean air when it finally comes.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person stands beneath clearing storm clouds as sunlight begins breaking through the sky after rain.
    Some victories are simply learning how to breathe again after the storm passes.

    Reading the Sky
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I woke today
    feeling different—

    like everything
    had changed,
    in an instant.

    Like the storm inside
    had finally gone silent.
    The winds had died,
    but I was alive.

    Smile on my face—
    for the first time,
    didn’t feel out of place.

    I could still see
    lightning on the edges
    of my perception—
    feel the rumble
    of thunder
    in my chest.

    It was softer now.

    This storm had passed,
    but another
    would surely come.

    It’s a cycle—

    and these things
    have a season.

    The storms?

    They come
    and go.

    That’ll never change.

    It’s learning
    to read the sky,
    to feel
    when the pressure shifts.

    Now let me say this plain…

    I’ve got depression.

    It lives in my chest,
    waiting to teach me lessons.

    It’s a storm
    I’ve weathered—

    more than
    any one person should.

    That’s what makes
    days like these—
    feel like the cleanest air
    I’ve ever breathed.

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

  • Finish What You Started – A Poem About Transformation, Shadows, and Rebirth

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some versions of yourself do not disappear quietly.

    Even after you’ve changed, even after you’ve tried to move forward, there are still old names, old mistakes, old selves that follow behind you like shadows.

    This piece came from thinking about transformation—not as a clean rebirth, but as something heavier.

    Something witnessed.

    The ravens in this poem aren’t meant to be enemies. They’re observers. Keepers of memory. Symbols of the parts of ourselves we can’t fully erase, no matter how badly we want to leave them behind.

    And the fire isn’t destruction alone.

    It’s momentum.

    Because sometimes growth doesn’t happen when you escape the past.

    Sometimes it happens when you finally walk through it.

    — Rowan Evans

    Figure walking through burning temple ruins beneath watching ravens
    The only way out is through.

    Finish What You Started
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Strike the match
    and light the flame—

    watch the past
    decay and end.

    I walk through temples
    while the ravens watch me.

    I feel their eyes upon me,
    following—

    every movement
    traced.

    They tally every sin I’ve carried,
    every name I’ve buried,
    every version of myself
    I tried to outgrow.

    They know the weight
    I drag behind me,
    the shadows I pretend
    I’ve already outrun.

    The flame behind me grows,
    licking at the stone,
    urging me forward—

    a reminder
    that the only way out
    is through.

    The ravens
    do not warn me back.

    They only tilt their heads,
    as if to say—

    go on…

    finish
    what you started.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    Previous:
    [The Shadow and the Spark]
    A psychologically charged free verse poem using Mortal Kombat imagery to explore anxiety, depression, identity, and the realization that survival matters more than victory.

    [East Knows My Name]
    A deeply introspective poem about emotional displacement, cultural disconnect, and feeling spiritually drawn toward a place far from where you were born.

    [Out of Sync]
    A reflective free verse poem about emotional displacement, shifting sleep cycles, and feeling spiritually drawn toward another side of the world.

    Upcoming:
    [Altars and Roses]
    A gothic free verse poem about poetic identity, recurring symbolism, devotion, and the quiet humanity beneath dramatic imagery.

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

  • East Knows My Name – A Poem About Disconnection, Identity, and Longing for Elsewhere

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from constantly trying to explain why you feel disconnected from the place you’re supposed to belong to.

    Not disconnected from life.

    Not disconnected from people.

    Disconnected from alignment.

    Like your internal compass keeps pointing somewhere the world around you doesn’t understand.

    This piece came from that feeling.

    From being awake while everyone else sleeps. From feeling emotionally out of phase with your surroundings. From trying to explain, over and over again, that displacement is sometimes deeper than geography.

    Some people hear that and assume it’s escapism.

    But for me, it’s never been about fantasy.

    It’s about recognition.

    There are places, cultures, people, and ways of existing that resonate with something in me more naturally than the environment I was born into ever has.

    And after writing about that feeling for years, I’m finally starting to understand:

    maybe the repetition wasn’t obsession.

    Maybe it was direction.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person awake before dawn feeling emotionally disconnected while staring eastward
    California in my blood. The east in my heart.

    East Knows My Name
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I sit awake again—
    disconnected
    from the world around me.
    The silence
    surrounding.

    It’s not fear
    I feel.

    It’s something else.

    Something deeper.

    Fear sits at the surface,
    I feel this in my bones.

    I look around
    at this house—

    supposed to be a home.

    I sit awake again—
    up since six AM.
    The disconnect
    sounds like static,
    a distorted hum.

    When I walk outside,
    I don’t feel like I belong.

    Do you know what it’s like—

    to feel one step
    to the left…

    all the time?

    It doesn’t feel right.

    I sit awake again—
    begging my words
    to come.
    I’m sick of only speaking
    in ink—

    I want to speak again.
    I have things to say.

    But my words…

    they don’t align.

    They are shifted,
    just like I am
    most of the time.
    It’s not my fault—
    I’m not the cause.

    It’s the world around me,
    the people surrounding.

    American mouth
    but my mind is not.

    Stuck in the west,
    but long for the east—
    it’s the way
    my heart beats.

    I try to explain it
    in piece after piece,
    poem after poem.

    I’ve written the disconnect,
    time and time again—

    I’ve written about being
    destined to leave
    since fourteen—

    felt disconnected,
    like the Wi-Fi dropped.
    Mind static, dramatic,
    screaming like…

    I won’t repeat myself—
    not for you,
    not for emphasis.

    Because that’s not
    what the rhythm is.

    It’s a compass
    with no magnetic north,
    so the needle drifts
    east of course.

    California in my blood,
    westside in my veins—

    but it’s the east
    that knows my name.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Out of Sync]
    A reflective free verse poem about emotional displacement, shifting sleep cycles, and feeling spiritually drawn toward another side of the world.

    [Two Americans]
    What does it mean to share a country, a language, and still feel completely different? Two Americans explores identity, culture, and the quiet disconnect between people who should feel the same—but don’t.

    [None of It Means a Thing]
    Success, fame, and money don’t mean much without someone to share them with. None of It Means a Thing explores love, purpose, and what truly makes life feel complete.

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

  • Out of Sync – A Poem About Displacement, Dreams, and Longing for Elsewhere

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a strange kind of exhaustion that comes from feeling emotionally out of sync with your surroundings.

    Not just tired physically— but displaced internally.

    Like your body exists in one place, while some deeper part of you keeps reaching toward another.
    This piece came from that feeling.

    From late nights, shifting sleep schedules, wandering thoughts, and the growing realization that sometimes longing isn’t just emotional—
    sometimes it becomes geographic.

    The Tagalog woven through this poem wasn’t added for aesthetic reasons. It felt necessary.

    Because some emotions arrive more honestly in the languages tied to the places, people, and futures living inside your mind.

    And maybe that’s what this piece really is:

    a confession from someone physically rooted in one side of the world, while their heart keeps leaning toward another.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person awake at night imagining distant city streets while feeling emotionally displaced
    Body in the west. Heart in the east.

    Out of Sync
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Eyes open—
    when they should be shut.

    You’re awake
    when you don’t want
    to be up.

    It’s hard to exist
    when your day shifts.

    Spirits fall
    when nothing’s wrong
    at all.

    You’re just
    out of sync…

    Four in the evening
    is near eight A.M.

    Time is the distance
    between my feet
    and the streets
    I want to walk.

    Seryoso ako—

    I want to go.
    I want to leave
    these streets behind.

    They were never mine.

    An American zombie,
    sleepwalking
    through life.

    Because the only time
    I feel alive—

    ay kapag ako’y
    nananaginip.

    When I sleep,
    I can walk
    different streets—

    body in the west,
    puso sa silangan.

    Journey into the Hexverse!

    [They Trip on Meaning]
    A free verse poem about miscommunication, emotional exhaustion, and the burden of constantly translating yourself for others.

    [Global Takeover]
    What if home isn’t a place—but something you build from the music you love? Global Takeover blends sound, culture, and identity into one borderless space.

    [Two Americans]
    What does it mean to share a country, a language, and still feel completely different? Two Americans explores identity, culture, and the quiet disconnect between people who should feel the same—but don’t.

    [I Don’t Mean Life]
    “I don’t want to be here” doesn’t always mean what people think. This poem explores identity, misunderstanding, and the weight of not feeling at home in your own environment.

    [121° East]
    A single line of longitude becomes something more—a reflection of distance, identity, and the quiet decision to become who you were always meant to be.

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

  • The Waves That Call Me – A Poem About Dreams, Doubt, and Moving Forward

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    For a long time, I confused standing still with failure.

    Like if I wasn’t moving fast enough, succeeding quickly enough, becoming who I wanted to be on everyone else’s timeline—then maybe the people doubting me were right.

    But growth rarely looks clean while you’re inside it.

    Sometimes progress is just continuing to move, even when fear, uncertainty, or other people’s expectations try to keep you frozen in place.

    This piece sits in that space between doubt and momentum.

    Between hearing the warnings… and still feeling the pull forward anyway.

    Because there are moments in life where the call toward something bigger becomes louder than the voices telling you to stay where you are.

    And eventually— you either trust that pull,

    or spend your whole life wondering what would’ve happened if you did.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing on a shoreline looking toward ocean waves symbolizing dreams and personal transformation
    Some voices tell you to stay. The waves tell you to move.

    The Waves That Call Me
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stood on the shoreline,
    eyes locked
    on ocean waves—

    pain and longing
    painted across my face.

    I feel stuck in place,
    like I forgot
    I’m trying to win
    the race.

    But I’ve got dreams
    to chase.

    One foot
    and then the other—

    even as they doubt me.

    They shout:
    “Not a snowball’s chance in—”

    Well—

    leave them puddles
    at my feet.

    I thrive in heat.

    They think
    they’ve got room
    to talk,
    trying to still
    my walk
    with warnings.

    They try
    to warn me.

    They say—
    only time will tell.

    But she’s not speaking.

    Thinking—
    I’m a failure.

    That’s what
    they said to me.

    If I’m a failure,
    then I’m glad—

    opposites attract,
    and success is coming
    down the track.

    I may have turned,
    taken the long way around—

    but I’ve got dreams,
    and I don’t plan
    to back down.

    So I stand on the edge,
    shoreline stretching
    without end—

    but it’s the waves
    that call me.

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

  • The Music Holds Me Upright – A Poem About Music, Mental Health, and Creativity

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve realized over the years that music does more than inspire my writing.

    It organizes me.

    When my thoughts become too loud, too fragmented, too heavy to carry all at once, music gives them shape. Rhythm turns chaos into movement. Emotion becomes something I can follow instead of drown in.

    This piece is about that process.

    About the strange balance between instability and expression. Between wobbling and staying upright. Between feeling overwhelmed… and still creating anyway.

    The references throughout the poem aren’t random. They reflect the sounds and artists that genuinely help ground me—music that travels across borders the same way emotion does.

    Because sometimes healing doesn’t look like silence or peace.

    Sometimes it looks like headphones on, music loud, pen moving, and surviving one line at a time.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person writing poetry in a dimly lit room surrounded by music-inspired imagery and candlelight
    The ground may shake, but music, ink, and light still hold me upright.

    The Music Holds Me Upright
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I sit with them
    when thoughts get heavy—

    the weight
    I’ve struggled
    to carry.

    My spine bends,
    but never breaks.

    They call me weeble,
    the way I wobble
    but don’t fall down.

    Standing
    on shaking ground.

    Depression.
    Anxiety.

    The fire
    inside of me.

    Flames flicker—
    entranced—

    the pen
    begins
    to dance.

    When thoughts grow heavy
    with the weight
    I’ve struggled
    to carry—

    I write.

    Lights.
    Camera.
    Action.

    The page—
    a stage.

    The pen—
    a dancer.

    Weaving
    ink-stained paths
    across lined paper.

    Word after word,
    I write what hurts—

    but I need
    the music first.

    Soundtrack
    to the chaos,
    drifting through
    Thailand,
    Japan,
    Korea,
    and the Philippines.

    Soundscapes
    helping my emotions
    take shape.

    Painting images,
    arranging metaphors—

    the music becomes
    a tour guide
    inside my mind.

    Each stop
    refracting—

    light fractured,
    split.

    A new emotion
    coming into focus
    as the sound shifts.

    And still,
    I steady—

    not by force,
    but by rhythm.

    The ground may shake.
    The thoughts grow heavy.

    But the music,
    the ink,
    the light—

    they hold me upright
    every time.

    So let the scene roll.
    Let the soundtrack swell.

    I’ll take every fracture,
    every wobble,
    every spark—

    and turn it
    into something
    that moves.

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

  • They Trip on Meaning – A Poem About Miscommunication and Emotional Translation

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    For a long time, I assumed communication struggles were always my fault.

    That if I was misunderstood, I must have explained myself poorly. If conversations became complicated, I must have said something wrong. So I learned to over-explain, rephrase, soften, clarify—constantly translating myself into something easier for other people to process.

    Eventually, that becomes exhausting.

    This piece came from realizing communication is supposed to be mutual. Understanding someone shouldn’t rest entirely on one person carrying the weight of translation.

    Sometimes words fail. Sometimes meaning gets tangled. Sometimes people hear you without truly listening.

    And sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is stop apologizing for existing in your own language.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person surrounded by fragmented floating words symbolizing miscommunication and emotional exhaustion
    I spent years thinking the problem was my voice.

    They Trip on Meaning
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I trip on words,
    like they come
    with two left feet.

    But is it me—
    or is it meaning?

    Maybe it’s just
    a misunderstanding.

    I trip on words—
    they never watch
    where they’re going,
    and I’m tired
    of being blamed
    for their bad coordination.

    They stumble
    out of my mouth,
    bumping into each other,
    apologizing
    on the way down.

    I trip on words,
    and every sentence bruises.

    I never learned
    how to speak
    without falling.

    But I’m starting to think
    maybe it isn’t me—

    maybe it’s them.

    I’m starting to think
    they hear me,
    but they don’t listen.

    Finding meaning
    in the in-between,
    where my mind hides.

    I trip on words,
    embarrassed at first—

    but I’ve grown sick
    of translating myself
    so much
    it hurts.

    I don’t trip on words.

    They trip on meaning,
    then expect me
    to apologize.

    No—
    that’s fine.

    The problem
    isn’t mine.

    I’ve already done
    the hard part.

    Slowed my mind
    so they could try
    to keep up.

    I’ve already done
    the hard part—
    learned myself,
    learned how to see
    someone else.

    I’ve already done the work,
    taken the steps
    to bridge the gaps,
    to close the space
    between us—

    but I can’t
    translate forever.

    Some meanings
    must meet me
    halfway.

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