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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: contemporary poet

  • 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]

  • The Shadow and the Spark – A Mortal Kombat Inspired Poem About Mental Conflict and Survival

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    For a long time, I treated parts of myself like enemies.

    The anger. The depression. The anxiety. The numbness. The intensity.

    I thought healing meant defeating those parts—silencing them, overpowering them, forcing them out of existence.

    But that mindset turns your own mind into a battleground.

    This piece uses the language and imagery of Mortal Kombat because fighting games have always fascinated me symbolically. Every character feels like an exaggerated emotional state: rage, grief, control, fear, vengeance, power, identity.

    And sometimes living with mental illness feels exactly like that: constant internal matches, different versions of yourself stepping into the arena one after another.

    But the ending became something unexpected while I was writing it.

    Because eventually I realized: the goal isn’t to destroy the shadow.

    The shadow is still part of me.

    This piece stopped being about conflict halfway through writing it.

    It became about coexistence.

    — Rowan Evans

    Figure standing beside their shadow in a supernatural arena of fire, ice, and lightning
    Every fighter shared the same player.

    The Shadow and the Spark
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Sometimes I lose sight of me,
    and honestly,
    I don’t like this side of me.
    When darkness takes over
    inside of me—
    it seeps out, Noob Saibot,
    shadow right beside me.

    I’ve weathered storms,
    in Netherrealm—
    trapped in Mortal Kombat
    with a version of myself.

    Bi-Han
    versus
    Kuai Liang

    And that’s just one side of me,
    I’ve got the fire of Hanzo Hasashi—
    it burns deep inside, smoldering.
    Shirai Ryu and Lin Kuei,
    fire and ice, inside of me.

    It’s a feeling, I can’t escape—
    Sindel screams inside my brain.
    Skull rattles, skeleton shakes,
    it’s a fatality that shakes me awake.

    The shadows
    try to silence—
    screams,
    fire and
    ice collide—
    steam.

    It’s pressure
    released.

    But it’s still a war inside,
    even when I can’t see.

    Shadows move.
    Screams echo.

    Kindling ignites.
    Water freeze.

    Each takes its place
    center stage,
    face to face—

    round one.
    Round two.
    Flawless victory.

    The shadow
    beat the scream,

    silenced the noise.

    And the next battle
    takes place—
    two elements step in,
    who’s going to win?

    Fire and ice,
    passion and apathy—
    I say “get over here,”
    to those in need.

    So passion takes the lead,
    but the shadow creeps—
    it seems to come from
    anywhere and nowhere,
    above, below—
    from where it’ll strike,
    no one knows.

    Pause.
    Select fighter.

    Shit’s about to get
    electric,
    Raiden is on the move—
    Noob gets a shock to the system.

    Shadow shocked.

    Uppercut. (Toasty!)
    Stage shift.

    New arena
    but the fight
    continues.

    The shadow
    and the spark—

    the light
    and the dark—

    —but neither side
    can truly win.

    Finish him?

    No.

    I’m tired
    of fighting myself.

    So I lower my fists,
    let the arena lights dim—

    and for the first time,
    the shadow
    stands beside me
    instead of against me.

    Because the shadow
    is still me.

    The fire
    is still me.

    The scream,
    the silence,
    the ice,
    the lightning—

    every fighter
    shares the same
    player.

    Controller shaking
    in my hands,
    I finally understand—

    this was never
    about victory.

    Only survival.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    Previous:
    [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.

    [The Waves That Call Me]
    A reflective free verse poem about doubt, perseverance, and learning to trust the pull toward the life you truly want.

    Upcoming:
    [Finish What You Started]
    A dark introspective poem about confronting the past, carrying old versions of yourself, and realizing that the only way forward is through the fire.

    [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]

  • The Poet Signing Off – A Poem About Love, Heartbreak, and Emotional Healing

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece feels like a conversation with every version of myself that survived long enough to become this one.

    The angry versions. The grieving versions. The lonely versions. The hopeful ones too.

    For a long time, I thought pain would eventually turn me cold. That heartbreak, betrayal, abandonment—all of it—would harden me into someone bitter.

    But somewhere along the way, I realized something:

    I don’t want to become what hurt me.

    So this poem became less about suffering, and more about what comes after it. About the kind of love I believe in now—not performative, not transactional, not built on fantasy.

    Real love is presence. Attention. Safety. Memory. Patience.

    It’s showing up.

    And maybe that sounds simple. But I think simple things are often the hardest to do consistently.

    — Rowan Evans

    Candlelit desk with handwritten poetry symbolizing heartbreak and emotional healing
    Love is not perfection. It’s presence.

    The Poet Signing Off
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Hello—
    let me introduce myself.

    I am Rowan
    and no one else.

    The fire in my eyes
    may have faded—
    but I never let the world
    turn me jaded.

    I’m not bitter,
    even though
    maybe I should be.

    I’ve been through shit—
    yeah,
    I’ve really been through it.

    I’ve seen friends
    turn to strangers—

    and worse,
    turn to haters.

    Friends
    to enemies.

    Lovers
    to ghosts.

    Raise your glass—
    time for a toast.

    I thank you
    for the lessons,
    the pleasure
    and the pain.

    I turned heartbreak
    into ink,
    and bled across
    the page.

    You taught me
    what love is not.

    It’s not grand gestures
    or fancy gifts.

    It’s time
    and presence—
    not just presents.

    It’s stormy weather
    and sunny days.

    It’s seeing the weight
    someone carries,
    realizing
    they’re being buried.

    It’s listening
    and learning
    their stories.

    It’s seeing beneath
    the surface,
    lifting them up—

    that’s the purpose.

    Remember
    the little things.

    How she likes her coffee.
    The way she wakes up,
    randomly.

    And be there.

    If she wakes
    shaken,
    and needs somewhere
    safe—

    be there.

    That’s the rule
    I try to live by.

    I’ve been hurt before,
    and I don’t want
    to pass that hurt forward.

    I want to ease the ache.

    I know I can’t
    fix the breaks—

    but maybe
    we can mend
    the cracks with gold,
    showing people
    the beauty
    damage makes.

    Because cracks
    are not flaws—

    they’re stories written
    in a language
    older than spoken tongues.

    It’s love—

    older than empires,
    older than cavemen
    lighting the first fires.

    Romantic or platonic,
    it matters not.

    Love is the cure
    to the rot.

    I scribble on the page
    as the lights begin to fade.

    Candles flicker.
    Flames dance.

    And the poet’s pen
    finds its cadence.

    The poet
    signing off.

    Goodbye.

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

  • Calculating Profits (Ledger of Lives) – A Powerful Anti-War Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    War is often framed through numbers – casualty counts, budgets, troop movements, strategic gains. But behind every statistic is a life, a family, a story that rarely gets told. Calculating Profits (Ledger of Lives) is a response to that reduction of humanity into arithmetic.

    This poem confronts the uncomfortable truth that while war is frequently portrayed as a contest of nations, the consequences are carried by ordinary people. Civilians lose homes, children lose futures, and entire communities are reshaped by decisions made far from the battlefield.

    The poem’s title references the cold language of accounting–ledgers, calculations, profits–to highlight how easily human suffering can be reframed as strategy or necessity. I wrote this piece to challenge the normalization of war as spectacle and to remind readers that the cost is never abstract. Every loss echoes through generations.

    Sometimes poetry must be gentle.
    Other times, it must speak plainly.

    This poem chooses the latter.

    — Rowan Evans

    Conceptual illustration of a battlefield fading into an accounting ledger, symbolizing the human cost of war being reduced to numbers.
    When lives become numbers, the ledger of war never truly balances.

    Calculating Profits (Ledger of Lives)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m so sick of this, it’s ridiculous,
    the way we glorify war like a sports game—fictitious.
    Us vs Them, who’s gonna win?
    While kids in rubble pray their lives begin.

    Flags wave, bombs blaze, headlines spin,
    nobody wins, but governments grin.
    Life lost, life changed, families torn apart,
    yet they call it “strategy,” cold as a heart.

    Soldiers march, leaders sit in their chairs,
    calculating profits while ignoring prayers.
    Civilians flee, the streets taste of ash,
    diplomacy dies in the bureaucratic clash.

    Every life a number in a ledger they hide,
    every tear a story the textbooks won’t write.
    We cheer heroes in videos, oblivious, blind,
    never realizing the price war leaves behind.

    Us vs Them—what a childish game,
    but it’s blood they gamble with, never their name.
    I spit this truth, raw, without disguise,
    because war is a lie, and I see through…

    the why—
    lies.

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

  • This Is Confession — A Neo-Gothic Love Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This Is Confession is one of those pieces that arrives when I’ve stopped trying to be poetic and instead let myself be honest. It’s less a poem and more a moment of emotional transparency—an admission pulled straight from the chest rather than crafted on the page.

    I have a habit of writing around the things I feel most deeply, hiding truth between metaphors or reshaping it into imagery so it feels safer. This time, I didn’t want safety. I wanted clarity. I wanted to name the weight and tenderness of caring for someone quietly, intensely, without performance or pretense.

    Sometimes the most frightening thing we can do is say something plainly.
    Sometimes the bravest thing is letting the truth stand without armor.

    This piece is that bravery for me.

    — Rowan Evans

    A candlelit scene with an ink-covered page and spilled black ink, evoking a gothic, intimate confession.
    A moment of truth written in ink—where confession becomes poetry.

    This Is Confession
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve done this once before,
    but this isn’t poetry…
    This—
    this is confession.

    This is me spilling my guts
    in ink-carved words.
    Even on the days we don’t talk,
    you’re still at the forefront of my thoughts.
    Your name lingers on the tip
    of my tongue.
    You’re my favorite topic—
    not to sound too obsessive.

    But even obsession feels too small a word
    for the way my thoughts orbit you.

    You’re the gravity I return to,
    even on the days I swear I’m drifting.
    Some names echo—
    yours resonates.

    I don’t know when it happened,
    but somewhere between your laughter
    and your pain,
    I started carrying pieces of you
    like they were my own.

    I kept it quiet.
    I didn’t say a thing.

    Not because I’m ashamed,
    but because admitting it feels like stepping
    into a room lit only by truth—
    and truth has never been gentle with me.

    It’s always been the same:
    people take what they want from me—
    then they leave.
    Or they leave the moment I open up,
    start to spill my guts, just a little—
    when I get a little too real,
    too much,
    too feel.

    Two truths and a lie…
    The truth is—
    I’ve always cared more than I should,
    and I’ve always been better at hurting myself
    than disappointing anyone else.

    The lie is pretending
    I don’t feel all of this
    every time you cross my mind.

    Because the truth is—
    you do.
    Every day.
    In ways I don’t admit out loud,
    in ways I fold quietly
    between the lines of every poem
    I swear isn’t about you.

    And maybe this is reckless,
    maybe this is too much—
    but confession was never meant
    to be safe.

    It was meant to be honest.
    And honestly?
    I’d spill every last secret I have
    if it meant you’d understand
    even a fraction
    of how deeply
    you live in me.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.