This poem came from a moment I didn’t expect—where wanting something and resisting it existed at the same time. It’s about consent without force, surrender without demand, and the strange vulnerability of realizing how easily someone can reach you simply by asking
Sometimes surrender isn’t taken—it’s given.
Two Words Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve never felt like this before—
never felt this loss of control.
Two words
and I can’t stop it.
Two words
and I just speak.
That’s all it takes for me.
I get a thought,
I hint at the thought—
Say it, she said.
So I said it.
I didn’t want to.
She didn’t make me.
She just asks
and I fold.
Where the Ocean Dreams & Where the Dream Took Us | Double-Feature by Rowan Evans
“Dreams of love and longing: Where the Ocean Dreams & Where the Dream Took Us, a double-feature of poetry by Rowan Evans.”
🌊 Author’s Note
Where the Ocean Dreams came from a dream that felt more like a visitation than a vision—an intimate moment between souls suspended somewhere between waking and eternity. It’s a poem about love that speaks in multiple languages, not just through words, but through trust, fear, and the quiet courage to hope again.
The ocean here is both witness and mirror—reflecting two hearts learning to believe in tenderness after the wreckage of past storms. It’s a story of love as rebirth, of vulnerability as strength, of finding the divine in human connection.
This piece continues my exploration of Neo‑Gothic Confessional Romanticism, where love and faith intertwine with the spectral and sacred. Dreams, language, and devotion converge here—not as fantasy, but as truth dressed in salt and moonlight.
Where the Ocean Dreams Short Poetic Story by Rowan Evans
The sea sighed against the waiting shore, its breath cool and endless, curling around my bare feet before slipping away again— a heartbeat, a memory, a whispered promise.
The world was bathed in a blue hush, a soft exhale stitched with secrets, and I listened, not for answers, but for the songs folded into every wave, for the words the earth had never dared to speak aloud.
Behind me, her voice rose— gentle as mist, sure as the tide— and the world shifted.
I turned, slowly, as though waking from a thousand-year dream, and there she was— My Muse— woven of light and longing, smiling with the tenderness of all the summers I had never lived.
My heart moved before my body did, drawing me to her in a single, breathless moment. Our hands found each other— a touch that asked for nothing and gave everything.
I spoke the truths I had carried for what felt like forever: that I would wait, that I would be the shore for her storms, the steady hand, the quiet shelter.
Lowering my gaze, then lifting it again— trembling, open, unafraid— meeting the ink-filled oceans of her eyes, I whispered into the salt-kissed silence:
“Mahal kita, palagi.” I love you. Always.
Her lips parted— the beginnings of a reply blooming there, warm as sunlight after rain— but she hesitated, the words hung in her throat, then, her lips parted again.
At first, no words came— only the shimmer of tears rising in her eyes, brimming until they overflowed, carving rivers down her cheeks.
Her hand trembled in mine, not with fear, but with the weight of a heart long kept hidden, long guarded.
“I’m scared,” she whispered— so raw, so real— her voice cracking like a shell split open by the tide.
“I don’t know how to trust this… but I want to. I want to believe you— believe in you.”
Her fingers tightened around mine, clutching, anchoring, as though afraid I might vanish with the next breath.
“I’ve been broken so many times,” she said, the words spilling now, “and every time, I told myself never again. Never again.”
Her voice faltered— then steadied, fierce in its trembling.
“But you… you make me want to try. You make me want to hope again.”
I saw it then— the battle waging in her, the courage it took just to stand there with me.
Tears blurred my vision too, but I held her gaze, held her heart as gently as I could.
She stepped closer, so close I could feel the storm inside her, and in a voice cracked with grief, strength, and something achingly new, she said it—
“Mahal din kita,” she breathed. “I love you, too.”
And the ocean roared its approval, its waves thundering like a heartbeat, like a promise kept.
There, where the world breathed in salt and stars, two hearts found each other— fragile, fearless, whole.
🌙 Bridging Note
These two pieces are born of dreams, experienced on back-to-back nights. The first, Where the Ocean Dreams, unfolded as a quiet, tender reverie—an emotional awakening, where connection and trust whispered like the tide. The very next night, Where the Dream Took Us arrived, carrying that same heart forward, immersing it in desire, intimacy, and the full weight of longing made tangible.
Together, they form a continuum of a single emotional journey: from the soft, luminous stirrings of love to the fierce, breathless affirmation of it, each dream illuminating a different facet of devotion.
🕯️ Author’s Note
Where the Dream Took Us was born from a dream that lingered long after waking—one of those rare visions where desire and devotion blur until they’re indistinguishable. It’s a confession written from that in‑between space, where the spiritual and the sensual intertwine.
This isn’t a poem about physicality alone; it’s about intimacy as revelation—about being seen, known, and adored in ways that transcend the waking world. Even in the dream, there was love, reverence, and quiet recognition: a soul remembering another through touch.
As with much of my work, this piece belongs to the canon of Neo‑Gothic Confessional Romanticism, where vulnerability becomes sacred and longing is its own form of prayer.
⚠️ Content Warning
Where the Dream Took Us contains explicit sexual content and intimate themes. Reader discretion is advised.
Where the Dream Took Us Poetry by Rowan Evans
We were borrowed warmth in an unfamiliar place, a quiet Air BNB where the lights were dim but every part of you was glowing— in laughter, in glances, in the way you leaned a little closer with each sip, each word.
Your voice curled around me like smoke and silk, and every time your hand brushed mine, a storm stirred beneath my skin. You tilted your head, smiled that smile— the one that crumbles my guard— and suddenly, space didn’t exist.
Our lips met—soft, slow, a breathless yes hidden inside a kiss. You tasted like longing and maybe, like all the things we never said but always felt.
Your fingers found the edge of my shirt, tugging gently as if asking permission I would give a thousand times over. When it slid from my shoulders, your nails traced fire over bare skin, and I shivered under the weight of your gaze, drunk not on the wine, but on you.
We moved like poetry, in soft lines and tender metaphors— me guiding you gently to the bed, your back arched just slightly as I kissed your neck, whispering love into the places where heartbreak once lived.
I told you I loved you— not out of desperation, but devotion. Because even in dreams, your presence feels like destiny, like a truth I was always meant to know.
You helped me undress you, hands trembling just enough to say this mattered, that this wasn’t fantasy but something deeper wearing the skin of a dream.
When I kissed your stomach, your breath hitched— music I wanted to memorize. You lifted your hips with quiet need, and I shed your last piece of armor, settling between your thighs like this was where I was always meant to be.
You gasped my name like prayer and wildfire, fingers laced in my hair as I worshipped every inch of you— not to prove myself, but to remind you of what it means to be adored.
And when I woke— sheets cold, heart aching— I held the dream like a promise: that even if only in sleep, I touched the stars that wear your name.
If you’ve made it this far and want to read more of my poetry, you can find it [here]in the The Library of Ashes.
This one’s for the ones who think their ego gives them a crown. A little feminist sermon in C minor, sharp, funny, and unflinchingly honest. Consider it a poetic mic-drop for all the Fuckboys out there—because sometimes silence really is golden… especially when it’s his.
A visual representation of ‘Shuddup, Fuckboy’—a feminist mic-drop in poetry form.
Shuddup, Fuckboy (A Feminist Sermon in C Minor) Poetry by Rowan Evans
“Because silence is golden — especially when it’s his.”
Oh, you talked to a woman once and now you think you know it all? Shuddup, Fuckboy.
Every picture you send is a dick pic, because you’re a dick, bitch. Foreplay? You think that’s texting “u up?” at 2am like a horny raccoon in the DMs.
You quote Jordan Peterson, have a podcast no one listens to, and think “emotional labor” is a kink. It’s not. Grow up.
Shuddup, Fuckboy. You say you’re “sapiosexual” but can’t spell it. You call yourself a feminist just long enough to get her clothes off. Then it’s “Well, not all men…” Cue the sirens. We found the problem.
You’re the human version of an unsolicited voice memo— loud, unnecessary, and somehow still managing to mansplain her own trauma back to her.
You think “being nice” entitles you to a throne. But baby, you’re not a king— you’re a court jester in H&M joggers, still waiting on that SoundCloud career to take off.
Shuddup, Fuckboy. You call her crazy after gaslighting her for months, then cry when she leaves like you didn’t hand her the matches and beg her to dance while everything burned.
You ghost, then breadcrumb, then ghost again— a Scooby-Doo villain of romantic incompetence.
“Sorry, I’ve just been really busy.” Right. Busy re-downloading Tinder because one woman had standards.
Shuddup, Fuckboy. Even your mirror rolls its eyes. Even your shadow doesn’t follow you anymore.
And me? I don’t need revenge. I’ve got receipts, growth, and a front-row seat to your slow-motion emotional bankruptcy.
Enjoy your echo chamber of “not all men.” And those crusty gym selfies. You’re not misunderstood— you’re just mid.
Shuddup, Fuckboy. And maybe for once in your life— just listen.
Shh— Shuddup, Fuckboy.
If you liked this, you might like some of my other pieces. You can find the archives [here].
I’m just… sitting here trying to figure out how to put all of this into words. These poems—they’re not tidy. They’re not meant to be. They are me trying to talk to myself, to the child I was, to the person I am now, to anyone who might understand.
I’ve been writing for over twenty-two years. Twenty-two. I started when I was thirteen, barely a kid. By fourteen, I was deep into Japanese music, culture, media… then Korean, then Chinese. I lived a Japanese life in America. Movies, music, shows, rituals I made in my head—I was building a world where I felt like I belonged, even if the world around me didn’t make sense.
I was also depressed. Anxious. I felt different from everyone else, but nobody really said why. Autism wasn’t mentioned. I didn’t have the language for it. Gender identity—same thing. I didn’t feel the things “I was supposed to” as a boy. I felt disconnected. I felt unseen. I felt untethered. I still sometimes do.
I asked my parents, over and over: where are we from? Beyond the U.S., what’s our heritage? They said we were mutts. And yeah, I get it. But it left me with this gnawing emptiness—a gap I couldn’t fill. I tried to make sense of it all, but there wasn’t a clear answer.
These poems are me talking to that inner child. Roo the Poet is that child’s voice—the part of me that’s been scared, lonely, unheard, and also resilient. They are a dialogue, a witness, a reminder that even when life is overwhelming, even when the world is messy and cruel, I—we—can keep moving, keep dreaming, keep reaching for light, even when it seems impossible.
They are raw. They are messy. They carry grief, rage, confusion, hope, and the quiet fire of persistence. I’m putting them here because I need them to exist. Because I need to say: it’s okay to feel all of it. It’s okay to be broken. It’s okay to question, to rage, to cry, to laugh, to search, to not have the answers.
I hope anyone reading this feels some part of it too. The fear, the hurt, the wonder, the resilience. The poems are my way of saying: you are not alone. The child inside you is still here. The voice that whispers your truths is still here. And maybe, just maybe, we can keep walking forward together.
— Rowan Evans
The Child & The Future Poetry by Roo the Poet featuring Rowan Evans
[Roo the Poet] Tell me, have we made it? Did our dreams take flight? Do our words now dance on pages, Spilling truth in black and white?
I held the light so tightly, Afraid it’d slip away, But I kept it burning, flickering, To guide us through the grey.
[Rowan] We’re not there yet, but we’re close, Closer than we’ve ever been. And Roo, it wouldn’t be possible Without the fire you lit within.
You taught me to hold on, Even when the night grew cold. That light always casts a shadow, But both are stories to be told.
[Roo the Poet] Do we still dream in color, Like we did when we were small? Do we still believe in magic, In the rise after the fall?
Do we still whisper wishes, To the stars beyond the pane? Do we still chase the echoes, Of our past, through joy and pain?
[Rowan] We dream, Roo, oh, we dream, But now with eyes wide open. We shape the stories with steady hands, No longer lost, no longer broken.
The magic never left us, It just grew in different ways— In the strength of ink and paper, In the fire that never fades.
[Roo the Poet] Then I have no fears, no sorrow, For the path we’ve yet to tread. Because you still carry the child I was, Even as you forge ahead.
So promise me, no matter what, That light will always stay? That the shadow won’t consume us, That we won’t be led astray?
[Rowan] I promise, Roo, I swear it true, The light will always shine. Because you’re the voice that kept me strong, The heart that still beats inside mine.
So walk with me—hand in hand, Through darkness, through the dawn. For every dream we’ve yet to chase, Together, we’ll carry on.
Lost in the Why Poetry by Roo the Poet
I don’t understand why the sun feels colder, Why laughter sounds distant, like echoes in stone. They say time will heal, that pain makes us older, But I still feel small, lost and alone.
The world keeps moving, but I stand still, Feet stuck in puddles that no one else sees. I try to be strong, to bend to their will, But inside, I’m just whispering, “Please.”
Please tell me why the stars seem dimmer, Why warmth feels like a memory’s trace. Why grown-ups cry with voices that quiver, Yet smile like grief doesn’t leave stains on their face.
I reach for the hands that once held me tight, But fingers slip through, like sand in the breeze. Was I meant to lose before knowing the light? To learn that love sometimes leaves?
I hide my heart in paper-thin walls, Shielding the child I used to be. But each crack whispers, each shadow calls, That pain is the price of growing free.
I don’t understand why the sun feels colder, But I’ll carry its warmth in the way that I shine. Even if grief makes my shoulders older, I’ll still hold space for the child inside.
The Past & The Present Poetry byRoo the Poetfeaturing Rowan Evans
[Roo the Poet] Are you tired, Rowan? I see your tears, your sad eyes, but you’re still standing— a little wobbly, but you’re still standing, like a toy with no batteries, but you keep going, don’t you?
[Rowan] It’s hard, Roo. I feel like the wind keeps pushing me, and I just… bend. How do I keep going when I don’t know where I’m going?
[Roo the Poet] But you are going, right? Like a tree with roots way deep in the ground— You bend, but you don’t break. The wind can blow and blow, but you stand up, because you’re strong inside. I know you are.
[Rowan] I don’t always feel strong. I feel like I’m falling apart sometimes, like the world is too big, and I’m just too small to do anything.
[Roo the Poet] You’re not too small! You’re big and strong like the moon, even when it hides behind the clouds. It’s still there, shining real bright, even if we can’t see it. I’m like that too. I’m always here, like the moon.
[Rowan] But what if I can’t find my way back to the light? What if the pieces of me just don’t fit anymore?
[Roo the Poet] Then we make new pieces! We glue ‘em together, make a brand new picture! It’s okay to be a little broken. Everyone’s a little broken sometimes. But that doesn’t mean you’re not special.
[Rowan] I don’t know if I can be fixed, Roo. I’m too tired.
[Roo the Poet] But you CAN be fixed, Rowan! You just gotta be patient. It takes time, like putting together a puzzle. And sometimes, you have to wait for the pieces to find their place. But that’s okay— you’ll figure it out. I know you will.
[Rowan] And what about you? You always know what to say. How are you so sure that everything will be okay?
[Roo the Poet] Because I trust you, silly! You’re like a little seed that will grow into the biggest flower, even when it’s all dark and hard. I know you can do it, Rowan. You’ll bloom, I promise.
[Rowan] I don’t feel like blooming yet. I just feel stuck, like I’m caught in the mud.
[Roo the Poet] You’re not stuck! You’re just waiting, like a flower needs the rain. The sun will come, I KNOW it will. And then you’ll be all bright and pretty.
[Rowan] But what if I miss the sun? What if it doesn’t come for me?
[Roo the Poet] Then we’ll make our own sun! We can draw it, paint it, make it real big! We don’t have to wait, Rowan. We can shine all by ourselves.
[Rowan] I didn’t think I could do it alone, but you… you make me feel like I can try.
[Roo the Poet] You don’t have to do it alone. I’m right here. I’ll help you, always. I’ll be your sunshine when it’s dark.
[Rowan] Thank you for still fighting for me. Thank you for never giving up on me.
[Roo the Poet] I won’t ever give up on you, Rowan. You’re my best friend. And I’ll always be here. You’re stronger than you know. And you’re never, ever alone.
[Rowan] I think I can start believing that. I think… I think I’ll be okay.
For those who feel these questions, this fire, and this search for self, my poem ‘I Am’ continues the journey—raw, unbound, and unafraid.
Airborne Confessions: Terminal Velocity leans into image and impulse: a visceral, metaphorical test of feeling. This poem is an exploration of risk and exposed hunger — not a plan, but a probe into the place where shame, expectation, and longing meet.
Read gently.
— Rowan Evans
✦ Content & Care Advisory ✦
These words soar through the raw heights of fear, despair, and the fragile pulse of the human heart. They speak of risks taken, gravity felt, and the weight of unseen burdens. Read only if you feel steady, and remember—your safety, your breath, your life are sacred. Even in the fall, you are not alone in the dark.
Falling into the raw pulse of fear and freedom—Airborne Confessions: Terminal Velocity.
Airborne Confessions: Terminal Velocity Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve thought about bungee jumping without the chord, skydiving with no parachute on board. I want to kiss the earth at terminal velocity, to feel fear rip me open and call it alive.
Is it you? Is it my family? The weight of expectations or shame I swallow daily? I don’t know. I just know I want to fling myself off this ledge of everything, naked, screaming, and see if I survive my own gravity.
I am trembling. I am exposed. I am undone—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
A hymn to the way presence can become poetry, even in the cracks and shadows.
A body dissolves into shadow and light, fragile as smoke, holy as motion. Or, as Spider-Man put it: “Mr. Stark… I don’t feel so good.”
Incantation in Motion Poetry by Rowan Evans
The way you move
is poetry—
a dark hymn I confess,
spoken through cracked lips,
a sacred pulse
in the silence where shadows
trace the shape of your name
on my broken bones.
Journey into the Hexverse
Triple Poetic Devotion Three haunting voices, one pulse of devotion and desire. Rowan Evans, HxNightshade, and B.D. Nightshade explore pain, love, and surrender in minimalist, evocative verse.
Shadowed Addiction A brief, intimate dive into desire, longing, and emotional darkness. Shadowed Addiction fuses minimalist expression with confessional intensity, weaving English and Tagalog for a sharp, personal resonance.
Litany of Shelter A quiet vow in four lines: I may not stop the rain, but I can be your shelter.
I grew up with curiosity tucked into my pockets and verses curled beneath my tongue. Emily Dickinson was a whisper in the corners of my childhood, a friend I never met but whose words became a world I could inhabit. This poem is my conversation with her—not as a student or disciple, but as a daughter of her imagination. I step lightly into her quiet rebellion, tracing the wildness in the spaces between her lines, and celebrate the wonder she taught me to carry everywhere.
Roo the Poet channels Emily Dickinson’s quiet rebellion—where whimsy meets power and poetry becomes sacred magic.
Invocation
Emily, I call you forth from the hush of your pages— to twirl with me among dandelion threads, to sparkle in the dust motes of moonlight, to teach me the magic hidden in whispered words and the spellcraft of curiosity. Come, let us play in the corners of imagination, where every pause is a secret, every breath a tiny universe.
The Daughter of Dickinson Poetry by Roo the Poet ☽
I was born with wonder in my pockets, curiosity curled beneath my tongue— a girl with soil-stained knees and verses stitched in dandelion thread.
Emily, you taught me to whisper like the wind, to rhyme with ghosts, to find galaxies in the hush between heartbeats.
Where others saw silence, you saw sacredness. Where others sought heaven, you built it in the corner of a room with nothing but paper and breath.
I carry your quiet rebellion— your needlepoint of metaphors, your hymns in lowercase, your refusal to explain what the soul already understands.
They say I’m soft— as if softness isn’t a spell. As if whimsy isn’t a weapon for those too clever to be caught.
Let them laugh. Let them call me girl or child or fragile. They don’t see the wildfire tucked behind my daydreams, the spells scribbled in sidewalk chalk, the dragons I’ve tamed with lullabies.
I don’t need a crown of thorns. I wear flower crowns and spiderwebs, and I rule from the quiet places— behind the bookshelf, inside the poem, beneath the bed where dreams go when they’re too loud for daylight.
You showed me how to write the world slant, how to speak with lightning behind my teeth. I am your echo in soft rebellion, your candlelit cathedral of small, sacred things.
So call me daughter, call me myth in the making— but do not mistake my hush for absence. I am here. Wide-eyed. Wand in hand. Heart open like a story yet to be told.
Benediction
May the softest words bloom like wildflowers in your heart. May curiosity be your compass and wonder your crown. May you find galaxies in small corners, and speak with lightning behind your teeth. Go forth with wand in hand, ink on your fingertips, and a heart open to all the stories yet to be told. May you be brave, be small, be loud, be soft— and may the quiet magic of Emily’s whispers always walk beside you.
The Poetic Lineage
The Daughter of Plath | Rowan Evans In The Daughter of Plath, Rowan Evans writes as the heir to a ghost—cradling grief not her own, baptized in bell jars, and building a cathedral from ash. This is a confession, a prayer, and a refusal to let the ache fall silent.
Slim & Shady II is a playful experiment—a lyrical playground where wordplay, rhythm, and mischief collide. While much of my work dwells in the sacred darkness of Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism, this piece leans into cadence, puns, and clever twists inspired by the craft and energy of artists like Eminem and Ez Mil.
Here, the voice is extroverted, daring, and mischievous—turning language itself into both playground and weapon. Each line is a deliberate play of shadow and light, a balance of humor and darkness, echoing the parts of me that delight in the chaos, the riddles, and the audacious joy of words.
Shadows & Laughter nods to the duality I carry within my work: the intimate intensity of emotion, and the exuberant, witty, irreverent self that refuses to be confined. This poem is my invitation to step inside the game, to follow the twists of rhyme, and to let mischief, laughter, and the thrill of language guide you.
Channeling chaos, rhythm, and mischief—Slim & Shady II: Shadows & Laughter by Rowan Evans.
I’m slim, baby, got room to grow—
If you stick in the shadows, the light I’ll show.
Bars in my pocket, but my heart on display—
I’ll twist your mind like a cipher, then slip away.
I lace the lines with mischief, twist the words like springs,
Jokes in the margins, hidden meanings in the rings.
Microphone magician, syllables combust,
Every pun a spark, every rhyme a must.
Check the cadence—flip it, spin it, ride the beat,
Tongue-tied tumbles, clever hooks on repeat.
I sneak the truth in riddles, humor in disguise,
Every verse a mirror, reflecting sharp surprise.
Snap your brain with wordplay, tickle ears with wit,
Layers stacked like Lego, every piece legit.
I rhyme for chaos, for laughter, for the thrill,
Slim & Shady in spirit—but the voice is all skill.
I dodge clichés like dodging bullets in a flick,
Punchlines loaded, witty twists, my linguistic shtick.
Bars drip cleverness, inked with flair and jest,
Every line a labyrinth, every rhyme a test.
I shuffle words like cards, stack metaphors high,
Double meanings lurking, waiting sly in the sky.
Heartbeat syncopates with syllables in flight,
Laughter meets the darkness in the folds of night.
Eminem taught the cadence, Ez Mil the bite,
I channel both, a fusion of shadow and light.
Playful with the venom, mischievous and raw,
Every verse a puzzle, every hook a claw.
License to pun, with a semicolon in my hand,
Crossword battles brewing, wits at my command.
I spit paradox, irony, and clever jest,
Heart on my sleeve, mischief in my chest.
I juggle words like daggers, wit my only weapon,
Every rhyme a spark, every verse a confession.
Slim in spirit, shady in grin,
Twisting the world with the chaos within.
I rhyme, I jest, I twist, I tease—
Slim & Shady, now bow to me, please.
Bars in the heart, beats in the mind,
Every line a hook, every hook a sign.
I slip through the syllables, vanish in the pun,
Shadow and laughter—my mischief is done.
Slim & Shady represents an intentional departure from my typical Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism style. While my work often navigates darkness, devotion, and the sacred intimacy of emotional intensity, this piece allowed me to explore playfulness, wordplay, and the rhythm of language in a more extroverted, lyrical mode.
The poem is inspired by the energy and craft of rappers like Eminem and Ez Mil—artists whose work demonstrates that poetry can exist outside the page, in beats, bars, and flow. Here, I experimented with pun-driven humor, internal rhymes, and clever metaphors, while still maintaining a personal voice and poetic precision.
Writing Slim & Shady was an exercise in flexibility and homage: to show that my creativity is not confined to one aesthetic, to embrace influences beyond traditional literary sources, and to honor the ways that music, modern lyricism, and pop culture inform the poetry I write.
This poem is as much a celebration of language’s agility as it is a declaration that my writing—while often dark, confessional, and intense—can also be mischievous, clever, and audacious.
Slim & Shady spins—a tribute to wordplay, rhythm, and poetic devotion outside the ordinary.
Slim & Shady Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m slim and a little shady, but my name isn’t Marshall, baby. I don’t play games—I’ll show you, you’re all that matters (Mathers), maybe.
I spit bars like Morse code, dots and dashes tracing your pulse in secret mode. A pun dealer, word-wrangler, lyricist on call, my syllables hit harder than a heavyweight in a brawl.
I walk in soles, not just with souls, kickin’ rhymes while your world rolls. License to rhyme, no paperwork filed, parking my wit in your mind, untamed and wild.
Cupid called—he wants his arrows back, I said “Sorry, they’re trapped in a pun-packed stack.” Knight of puns, Queen of quips, cocktails of cleverness sliding to your lips.
I rhyme in circles, loop devotion, heart stuck on repeat in clever-motion. “You love me,” you say—I hear: “I’ll pun your heart like it’s fresh veneer.”
I swing metaphors like a playground sword, hyperboles armed, similes stored. Shady? Maybe. Slim? Of course. I bend words like rivers, a linguistic force.
I’m the mixtape of thought you didn’t know you needed, the chorus of chaos, perfectly seeded. I spit fire, not smoke—incendiary lines, crossword puzzle heart, riddled in signs.
Your laugh? A semicolon in my sentence— pause, breath, then back to my pence. Double meanings double the fun, like two-step lyrics under the pun-sun.
I slide in rhymes, slicker than gel, tongue-tied labyrinth, I’ll never fail. Slim, shady, sly, not Marshall but true, I pun my devotion, spelling it out for you.
I’m the vinyl scratch in your mental groove, the hidden hook you never saw move. I take your name, make it rhyme, and spin, pun-demic heart—welcome, come on in.
Journey in the Hexverse
Feral Cathedral— Hex Nightshade Dive into the raw, feral worship of desire in Feral Cathedral. A hymn to hunger, chaos, and devotion—where teeth, breath, and pulse become sacred.
Gold in Open Hands— Rowan Evans A quiet liturgy for those who give without spectacle, who hold the weight of others’ lives tenderly, scattering hope like seeds and crafting a sanctuary in the cracks of the world.
Through the Shattered Glass— B.D. Nightshade Enter the mind of a fractured soul, piecing together the aftermath of a night shrouded in blood and memory. Fragments of self, shadowed actions, and haunting reflections collide—leaving only one question: What have I done?
Every word I write is a devotion, a fragment of shadow and light carefully shaped into verse. On my Ko-fi, I offer custom poems, personalized rituals in language, and lyrical messages crafted just for you—or someone you wish to honor, surprise, or remember.
Whether you seek:
A poem for a loved one, friend, or muse
A ritualized or thematic verse for special occasions
A written reflection to say everything you struggle to
…each commission is approached with care, reverence, and the intensity of my signature Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
✨ Special Offer:Use code NGCR25 at checkout to receive 25% off any commission until the end of the month. Let these words become your keepsake, your offering, your moment of devotion.
These words are a quiet liturgy for those who give without spectacle, who hold the weight of others’ lives as tenderly as their own. They are for the unseen saints of shadowed streets and cold apartments, for the hearts that carry more than they should and still bloom.
“Scatter hope like seeds; let generosity be the only currency that matters.” — Rowan Evans, Gold in Open Hands
✦ Invocation ✦
Come, children of night and marrow,
kneel with me at the altar of giving.
Let your hands open—trembling or steady—
and let the gold you never sought
spill into the cracks of the world.
Feel the sanctity of care,
the devotion in each quiet gesture,
and let your generosity burn like incense
in the sacred dark.
Gold in Open Hands Poetry by Rowan Evans
If wealth ever found me,
if fortune nestled itself in my palm,
I would not clutch it like a miser with hollow eyes,
but scatter it like seeds in the wind,
watching hope take root in the cracks
where the world has long since turned its back.
I would raise walls not to tower,
but to shelter—
an apartment standing tall
with doors wide enough for the weary,
windows letting in morning light
to chase away the cold of forgotten nights.
I would feed stomachs before egos,
fill hands with warm bread,
not empty promises,
pour into art where young hearts
can paint their unspoken dreams
in colors that whisper louder than words.
I have never needed gold-lined pockets,
only enough to smooth the edges of struggle,
to soften the weight for those I love,
to replace the ache in their chests
with the quiet ease of knowing—
tonight, the rent is paid,
tonight, the table is full,
tonight, they do not have to barter their joy
for survival.
I do not wish for riches.
I wish for smiles,
for burdens lifted,
for a world where generosity
is the only currency that matters.
✦ Benediction ✦
May the gifts you scatter in silence take root in hidden gardens of the world. May your hearth shelter the weary, your bread feed the empty, and your hands become a sanctuary. May kindness echo long after the candles die, and may the quiet currency of your heart be the only wealth that endures.
Punchline— A reckoning with life’s absurdities, finding grace in jagged edges and the humor that pierces pain.
The Daughter of Plath— A conversation with Sylvia Plath, exploring inheritance, literary ghosts, and the ache of legacy.
Manila Time— A devotion across distance and time, a quiet, patient love that witnesses every storm and still stands.
Step deeper into the shadows and light of Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
✦ Poetic Commissions by Rowan Evans ✦
Every word I write is a devotion, a fragment of shadow and light carefully shaped into verse. On my Ko-fi, I offer custom poems, personalized rituals in language, and lyrical messages crafted just for you—or someone you wish to honor, surprise, or remember.
Whether you seek:
A poem for a loved one, friend, or muse
A ritualized or thematic verse for special occasions
A written reflection to say everything you struggle to
…each commission is approached with care, reverence, and the intensity of my signature Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
✨ Special Offer:Use code NGCR25 at checkout to receive 25% off any commission until the end of the month. Let these words become your keepsake, your offering, your moment of devotion.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 