Author’s Note
Some people develop a hobby. Some people find a passion. And some of us apparently spend twenty-three years turning emotional damage into rhymes and developing an unhealthy relationship with metaphors.
Ink in My Veins is a declaration of identity, a little creative defiance, and a reminder that confidence doesn’t always come from believing you’re the best. Sometimes it comes from knowing exactly how long you’ve been doing the work.
At thirty-six, I’ve been writing for twenty-three years. I started at thirteen, long before I understood what poetry would become to me. What began as a way to process pain gradually became a language of its own—a way to understand myself, make sense of the world, and give shape to things I couldn’t always explain.
There’s a little humor and swagger in this piece, and I’m not particularly interested in pretending otherwise. Sometimes the clowns need reminding that the person they’re provoking has been sharpening their words for a long time. But beneath the playful threats, pop-culture references, and rapid-fire wordplay is something much more personal: writing isn’t something I simply do. It’s woven into how I think, how I feel, and how I make sense of being alive.
The ink-bender imagery is intentional. I’m not just putting words on a page; I’m bending language, shifting perspectives, changing direction, and occasionally throwing a little verbal magic into the mix. The future isn’t necessarily predictable, but I know the person holding the pen has spent years learning how to shape a thought into something meaningful.
And that’s ultimately what this poem is about.
Not fame. Not applause. Not proving something to people who have already made up their minds.
Understanding.
Twenty-three years later, the ink hasn’t run dry. The fire hasn’t gone out. And the thirteen-year-old who first picked up a pen is still somewhere in every line I write.
Apparently, some stains are permanent. Thankfully, this is one I never wanted to wash away.
— Rowan Evans
Ink in My Veins
Poetry by Rowan Evans
They say this isn’t fair,
and I don’t know if you’re aware—
but it’s no circus either, although,
there is a high number of clowns ’round here—
they say they’re joking, thinkin’ they’re Loki,
unaware of who they are provoking.
I’m the ink-bender,
weaving ink into a hex—
I’m writing the future,
I know what comes next—
still switch lanes so quick,
it’d break necks.
You’re probably thinking,
“where’d they get this audacity?”
It comes from 23 years at 36—
ink-stained fingertips,
muse’s name gracing lips,
thousands of rhymes and little tricks—
writing is not something I do,
it’s everything I am—
it’s not blood in these veins,
it’s ink that stains, fed by the flames—
a fire burning since thirteen,
stoked by memories of pain—
it’s understanding I chase, not fame.
Journey into the Hexverse
If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]
