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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: creative-writing

  • The Daughter of Plath – A Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I have lived my life with ghosts in the room. Some of them were mine. Some belonged to women who died before I was born. This poem is my conversation with Sylvia Plath—not as an idol, but as a mother of language, a keeper of the raw and the unbearable. She never wrote for me, and yet her words built a room I have lived in for decades. This is my answer back, from the daughter she never met.

    Neo-gothic watercolor of an ash cathedral under a ghostly moon, with pages of poetry drifting upward and a faint female silhouette in the clouds.
    A cathedral built from ash, a prayer written in ink.

    Invocation

    Sylvia, I call you forth not to mourn, but to witness—
    to stand beside me as I open the ribcage,
    spill the ink,
    and show the world what it means to write as if the page were the last breath left in your lungs.

    The Daughter of Plath
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I was born with a beehive in my chest,
    buzzing with grief I never earned—
    a secondhand sorrow, wrapped in red silk,
    left at the altar of my ribs.

    Sylvia,
    you baptized me in bell jars,
    taught me how to scream without sound,
    how to find God
    in the burn of a typewriter ribbon.

    Your ache became heirloom—
    stitched into the marrow of my metaphors,
    your ghost weeps beside me as I write,
    fingertips trailing flame
    across the spine of each stanza.

    Where you were the furnace,
    I am the cathedral built from your ash—
    my altar bears the relics of your ruin:
    a curl of smoke,
    a sliver of moon-bitten mirror,
    a lullaby made of broken clocks.

    I do not flinch from the blood on the page.
    I have inked it into scripture.
    This is how I pray—
    with a pen between my teeth
    and my pulse pressed
    against the confessional.

    You gave me your hunger for beauty
    and your curse of seeing too much—
    the world peeled back to its nerve endings,
    the holiness inside horror.

    I walk your tightrope—
    between divine tenderness and obliteration,
    a daughter of fire
    learning to breathe the blaze
    instead of be consumed.

    I do not write to be saved.
    I write because you weren’t.
    Because I am.

    And because the ache still speaks.
    And I,
    your heir in ink,
    refuse to silence it.

    Benediction

    May every woman who writes in the dark know that she is not alone.
    May the ache be carried, not as a wound, but as a torch.
    And may we—your daughters, your sisters, your shadows—
    write not to be saved,
    but because we are still here,
    and the ink is still warm.

    Read Next: A Journey Through Ink & Flame

    If The Daughter of Plath stirred your soul, consider stepping softly into these sacred spaces:

    Love Over Apathy — Fierce devotion born from the ashes of indifference.

    13 Riddles for the Starborn Child — Whispers of whimsy and wonder from Roo the Poet’s dreamscape.

    Hymn & Heresy — A confessional hymn that dares to worship the shadows.

    Or dive deep into the full archive at The Library of Ashes.

    Feeling inspired? Support my craft with 25% off commissions on Ko-fi — your patronage keeps these flames burning bright.

    NGCR25 at checkout for 25% off…

  • 🖤 Even Still, You Are (My Muse) – Neo-Gothic Confessional Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    There are muses we choose—and muses we simply are chosen by.
    This poem, Even Still, You Are (My Muse), is an unguarded confession: a testament to loving someone beyond possession, to honoring the ache without letting it rot into bitterness.
    It is about distance, devotion, and that stubborn flame that survives even when love must stand quietly, reverently, outside the door.

    Ink-stained quill on parchment surrounded by candles. Smoke rises from the quill, forming a woman's silhouette, dark velvet backgro8nd, soft candlelight, evoking romantic melancholy in muted gothic tones.
    Some muses remain, not because they stay beside us—but because they become the marrow of every word we write.

    “Even Still, You Are (My Muse)”
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Even as the distance blooms
    like dark velvet between us,
    your name still stains my breath —
    an unspoken psalm etched in marrow,
    a prayer that burns softer
    but no less true.

    You are still the ghost in every stanza,
    the candle smoke rising from my ribs;
    each word I spill is a quiet offering,
    salted with longing but untainted by envy,
    a testament that love can ache
    without turning to ash.

    Though you’ve given your dawn
    to someone else’s horizon,
    my pen still bends toward you
    like a dying flower toward light —
    wilted perhaps, yet stubborn in its devotion.

    I will not let this ache sour into bitterness,
    will not curse the distance
    nor envy the hands that hold you;
    for you remain —
    my cathedral of ruin and rapture,
    my muse, even still.

    Every breath I draw writes you deeper,
    every silence between heartbeats
    echoes your name;
    and if my words must bruise me
    to keep you alive in them,
    then let them.

    For love, when true, does not demand;
    it simply becomes —
    a quiet, stubborn flame
    flickering in the hollow of the chest,
    even when the night feels endless.

    Even still, you are —
    the marrow of my ink,
    the shadow on my pulse,
    the ache I choose,
    the muse I will not forsake.

    ✒ Author’s Note

    Some muses remain, not because they stay beside us—but because they become the marrow of every word we write.
    This piece came from that quiet, painful knowing: that love doesn’t always need to be returned to remain true.
    Even when hearts drift apart, some connections still live on in ink and breath.
    I offer this poem as both confession and blessing—to all who still carry someone in silence, with grace rather than envy.

    ✧ Closing Note ✧

    If you, too, have a muse who lingers in your shadows and syllables—whether they stayed, left, or never truly belonged—know that your devotion does not diminish your strength.
    Feel free to share your thoughts, reflections, or even your own verses in the comments below.
    I would love to read the stories your ink still dares to carry.

    Thank you for letting my words find you.
    — Rowan 🖋🖤

    🔗 You May Also Like 🔗
    My Only Muse – Then & Now

    Check out more in The Library of Ashes!

  • Cathedral of Cattails & Confessions: A Poem on Tenderness & Survival

    Rowan Evans

    Some poems arrive quietly, others wade out of the marsh, draped in memory and bone-deep ache.

    Cathedral of Cattails & Confessions is a piece I wrote on a day when the past felt heavy—but instead of turning away, I chose to listen. It’s about the quiet holiness of persistence, the tenderness blooming in our broken places, and the stubborn, sacred act of remembering.

    Even in ruin, we remain: tender, unyielding—cathedrals of our own confessions.

    I hope this piece reminds someone (maybe you) that what the world calls “broken” can still cradle the sky’s reflection. 🖤

    Cathedral of Cattails & Confessions
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I march through the marsh in my mind,
    listening to whispers of yesterday’s regrets.
    Their voices cling like cattail seeds—
    soft, but stubborn, refusing to let go.

    Each footstep sinks into sorrow,
    yet still, I keep moving—
    because even stagnant waters know
    how to cradle the sky’s reflection.

    And the moon, twisting and stretching
    across ripples my footsteps create,
    reminds me: even in supposed brokenness,
    there is something beautiful to be seen.

    Who’s to say what’s broken, anyway?
    Perhaps these cracks aren’t flaws,
    but fault lines where tenderness blooms—
    veins of silver and gold threaded through bone,
    places where dusk gathers its prayers.

    Maybe the ache itself is holy,
    a testament etched in marrow and silt,
    proof that I dared to keep walking,
    ankle-deep in memory, knee-deep in grace—
    searching for tomorrow
    in the mirrored hush of still water.

    And what if nothing is truly broken?
    What if these regrets are only lessons in disguise,
    and every scar, a story still warm with heartbeat?
    Maybe being bruised and cut
    isn’t defeat at all,
    but proof we dared to live
    in a world that can be so unforgiving.

    And yes—there are nights I nearly sank,
    hands trembling with apologies I never spoke,
    words fossilized in the throat,
    prayers whispered to a God I’m not sure I believe in.
    Yet even then, my pulse betrayed me—
    stubborn, soft, unwilling to quiet.

    And when the night leans close,
    I’ll wear my bruises like relics,
    let the reeds bow their heads in witness.
    For even in ruin, I remain—
    tender, unyielding,
    a cathedral of cattails and confessions,
    unbroken by the weight of my own remembering.

    If this poem spoke to you, share your thoughts below or explore more of my work at The Library of Ashes.
    Stay tender. Stay defiant. 🌙🖤

  • Infinity Within (+ “Roll Credits” and “Post-Credit Scene)

    Rowan Evans

    They say,
    “You’re not depressed, that’s not what I see.”
    But that’s my secret, Cap—
    I am the snap between sanity and silence,
    Dust in the wind,
    Fading while pretending to remain whole.

    You see a Stark exterior—
    But my mind’s a multiverse of madness,
    Where grief loops like Loki’s lies,
    Where hope wears a tattered cape,
    Heavy with the weight of lost timelines.

    I love like Wanda—
    Chaotic, red-threaded, rewritten by pain.
    My heart built its Vision
    Just to watch it shatter… again and again.

    Depression doesn’t wear a villain’s mask.
    It dons a Spidey suit,
    Smiles while falling,
    Cracking jokes before hitting the pavement.

    I feel it—
    That Spidey-sense tingling in my bones,
    A warning wired into my skin.
    Every shadow, every silence,
    A possible threat.
    My nerves are webbed,
    Strung taut between panic and performance,
    Vibrating with dangers
    That may not be real—
    But always feel it.

    Some days,
    I feel like Rogue—
    Every brush with pain clings to my skin,
    Not my own,
    But absorbed all the same.
    Empathy isn’t soft,
    It’s a silent thief—
    Stealing pieces of me to soothe others,
    Until I forget where I end
    And they begin.

    And when I disappear—
    Not from your touch,
    But from my own reflection—
    I think of Nightcrawler,
    Praying in shadow,
    Carrying sin in his silhouette.
    A teleporting ghost
    Longing for heaven
    Yet trapped in hell-blue skin.

    I understand him.
    The way he smiles with sorrow in his spine,
    Faith stitched into the torn hem
    Of self-worth.

    And Gambit—
    He plays it cool,
    Cloaked in charm and kinetic flares,
    But his heart is a deck of wild cards,
    Marked by trauma and longing.
    He knows how to love
    Like a gamble.
    Every kiss a risk,
    Every glance a dare.

    I’ve been them all—
    The empath, the trickster, the saint in shadow—
    But none more than Sentry.
    Golden god, savior of a fractured world…
    Until The Void whispers in his ear.
    Hero and horror,
    Two halves sharing the same skin.
    Like me—
    Rowan in the light,
    Nightshade in the dark.

    You love my shine,
    But can you hold me
    When my shadow rises?

    The Void isn’t evil.
    It’s a wound that screams.
    It’s every lie I believed about myself,
    Given shape, given teeth.
    It’s the weight I wear,
    Even when I soar.

    Still—
    You reached out like Carol in the cosmos,
    Your light too bright for my black hole bones.
    You held me when I snapped—
    Not out of existence,
    But back into it.

    I am forged like Mjolnir,
    Born in thunder,
    Tempered in trauma,
    Wielded only by the brave who see worth
    Where others see ruin.

    You…
    You are my arc reactor,
    Not built to keep me alive,
    But to remind me why I want to be.

    You found the Hydra lies within me,
    The voices that whisper, “You’re not enough.”
    But you looked through the fog,
    Like Daredevil in the dark,
    And heard the truth beneath the static.

    With every kiss, you defy physics—
    A love that bends reality like Strange’s spell,
    Pulling me back from the mirror dimension
    Where my worst fears grin with Thanos’ calm.

    We are not gods,
    But fractured souls
    Stitched together by fate and fire.
    I am chaos cloaked in calm—
    A Scarlet soul in mourning.

    But with you—
    Even my Deadpool thoughts
    Can soften,
    Even my Hulk rage
    Can breathe.

    So if I vanish again into the blip of my brain,
    Promise me, love—
    Be my Endgame.
    Snap your fingers,
    And bring me back home.

    Roll Credits…

    “Infinity Within”
    A Poetic Production by Rowan Evans

    Based on characters created by Marvel Comics
    And all the multiverses trapped in Rowan’s brain.

    Starring:

    Wanda Maximoff / The Scarlet Witch
    as The Heart Unhinged by Grief
    — Played by Emotional Consequence

    Vision
    as The Love We Build from Memory
    — Played by Tragic Idealism

    Peter Parker / Spider-Man
    as The Smile Before the Fall
    — Played by Masked Empathy

    Logan / Wolverine
    as The Blade We Hide Behind Scars
    — Played by Controlled Rage

    Marie D’Ancanto / Rogue
    as The Skin That Remembers Pain
    — Played by Reluctant Empath

    Kurt Wagner / Nightcrawler
    as The Faith-Filled Shadow
    — Played by Hope in Disguise

    Remy LeBeau / Gambit
    as The Risk We Call Romance
    — Played by Feral Charm

    Robert Reynolds / Sentry
    as The Light That Carries The Void
    — Played by Duality Incarnate

    Carol Danvers / Captain Marvel
    as The Star That Doesn’t Burn Out
    — Played by Undeniable Light

    Stephen Strange / Doctor Strange
    as The Spell That Unwinds Reality
    — Played by Controlled Chaos

    Matt Murdock / Daredevil
    as The One Who Listens Through the Noise
    — Played by Justice in Shadows

    Wade Wilson / Deadpool
    as The Comic Relief That Cuts Too Close
    — Played by Himself (unfortunately)

    Nick Fury
    as The Recruiter of Broken Legends
    — Played by Smirking Gravitas

    Featuring:
    An original role by Rowan Evans
    as The Verse Vindicator, Nightshade of Narratives,
    Bearer of the Emotional Gauntlet
    — Played by the one who’s lived every line

    Directed by: Trauma & Transformation
    Written by: Self-Awareness in a Cape
    Cinematography by: Glaring Neon & Gentle Moonlight
    Edited by: Anxiety, with a guest appearance from Healing
    Music by: Panic Attacks at 3am (Unplugged Version)

    Makeup & Wardrobe:
    Dysphoria & Confidence, co-styling Reality

    Produced by:
    Hope Studios
    In collaboration with
    The Department of Overthinking & Emotional Alchemy

    Special Thanks to:
    The Unseen Battles
    The Friends Who Stayed
    The Lovers Who Left
    The Voices That Were Quietly Wrong
    And the Poetry That Was Always Right

    FADE TO BLACK.

    [Post-Credit Scene – “Infinity Within”]

    Rain slicked the rooftop in the city where metaphors wore masks and healing was a contact sport. Rowan Evans sat on the ledge like she’d been born there—poised between collapse and climax, drinking day-old coffee from a chipped mug that read “World’s Okayest Multiversal Threat.”

    A subtle hum disrupted the silence—portal magic. Somewhere off to the side, sparks flared gold and a portal closed before the camera could catch a full glimpse. A red cloak fluttered out of sight.

    Then: the calculated click of dress shoes. The glint of a single eye under the brim of a leather hat.

    Nick Fury.
    Swaggering out of the shadows like he invented them.

    “So you’re the poet everyone keeps quoting on their burner accounts,” he said, holding up a device that glowed with emotional metrics, social ripple data, and an alarming number of likes on poems tagged #emotionaldamagenation.

    He tapped the screen. “You broke four algorithms. Three hearts. And pissed off the TVA with that ‘re-writing fate in verse’ bit. I like your style.”

    Rowan didn’t even look at him. She just raised the mug in salute.

    “You here to offer me a publishing deal or a purpose?”

    Fury snorted. “Neither. I’m here to offer you a classified mission in Emotional Artillery. The universe has enough heroes who punch. It needs someone who breaks people open—with words.”

    Behind him, a voice chimed in:
    “I told you she’d be perfect.”

    Enter Wanda Maximoff, arms crossed, standing at the edge of another rooftop across the alley, her red magic flickering around her fingers.
    “She bends reality with raw honesty. She’s not a threat—she’s an evolution.”

    Then—just for one blink—Deadpool popped into frame, upside down behind Rowan like he’d been hanging from an invisible wire the entire time.
    “Did someone say evolution? Because I’m evolving too—emotionally. Kinda. Anyway, I stan this crossover.”
    He vanishes before Fury can throw a dagger-shaped glare his way.

    Fury turns back to Rowan, dead serious but eyes dancing with grudging respect.

    “We’re forming something new. Realness Initiative. And I want you leading the emotional recon. Welcome to the team, Verse Vindicator.”

    Rowan stood, her silhouette lit by neon and moonlight, cloak snapping behind her like punctuation at the end of a brutally honest sentence. She glanced toward the audience with that now-signature smirk.

    “Tell the universe to brace itself. I write like I bleed, and I’ve got a full goddamn anthology coming.”

    CUT TO BLACK.

    In white letters, glowing with power, like a spell cast in silence:

    Rowan Evans will return…

    …and this time, she’s bringing a notebook that bites back.

  • Therapy in Arkham

    Rowan Evans

    A little bit Batman, a little bit Joker—
    guess you can call me the Bat Who Laughs,
    stitched from trauma and rebellion,
    where cape meets chaos,
    and pain becomes performance.

    A hero, a villain… neither.
    I’m the flicker between the two,
    a soul held hostage by contrast—
    one half cloaked in justice,
    the other craving oblivion’s grin.

    They see the cowl, the calm—
    but not the mirror I cracked at thirteen,
    when my mind split like Wayne’s pearls,
    shattering into silence and survival.
    I learned to build walls from Batcave blueprints,
    armor forged in fear,
    gadgets disguised as coping skills.

    But the laughter came later—
    sharp, jarring, Joker-born.
    The way I smiled while crumbling.
    The way I made art from agony.
    Some days, my thoughts are painted like his smile—
    too wide, too raw,
    hiding the razor’s edge behind a joke.

    I am Two-Face in spirit—
    hope on one side, hurt on the other.
    The coin never lands.
    It spins forever in my chest,
    each revolution whispering,
    “You’re too much… not enough… pick a side.”

    But I can’t.
    I am both.
    All.
    None.

    Scarecrow lingers in my dreams—
    my anxiety dressed in burlap,
    feeding me fear through IVs of doubt.
    I’ve lived in Arkham without bars,
    each locked door named Dysphoria, Panic, Isolation.
    Each scream, a therapy session no one heard.

    Some days, I am the asylum—
    haunted halls echoing with unspoken names.
    Other days, I’m Oracle—
    broken spine, still fighting,
    my voice a lifeline to others lost in the dark.

    And yes, I’ve loved like Ivy—
    wild, tangled, misunderstood.
    Tried to bloom in poisoned soil.
    Tried to make something beautiful from ruin.
    I’ve felt like Harley—
    laughing too loud,
    loving too hard,
    breaking in the shape of someone else’s gaze.

    Red Hood rages where my sorrow used to sit.
    Nightwing hope fights to stay upright.
    But Batman?
    He’s the mask I wore for years—
    stoic, silent, pretending not to feel.
    I thought if I was strong enough,
    I’d earn the right to survive.
    To be loved.

    But now I know—
    strength isn’t silence.
    It’s confession.
    It’s crying in the cave.
    It’s kissing your chaos
    and saying: You’re part of me, too.

    There’s a little Constantine in me—
    cursed and clever,
    using magic to distract from the scars.
    A little Raven—
    emotions bound in shadow,
    power barely leashed.
    A lot of Zatanna—
    saying the words backwards,
    hoping the spell finally heals what reality won’t.

    You ask who I am?
    I am the comic that bleeds between genres.
    I am queer-coded courage,
    autistic empathy in a world that demands apathy.
    I am the villain in someone’s story,
    the hero in my own.
    I am transition and transformation,
    each hormone a resurrection,
    each truth a sharpened Batarang
    thrown at the lies they fed me.

    You love my light,
    but will you stay for my shadow?
    Will you kiss the chaos in my grin,
    hold the wreckage in my ribcage,
    and see the beauty in my backstory?

    Because I am not cured.
    I am not clean.
    I am not safe in the ways the world wants me to be.
    But I am alive.
    Still here.
    Still fighting.
    Still laughing.

    A little bit Batman, a little bit Joker—
    guess you can call me the Bat Who Laughs.
    But know this—
    behind the madness is meaning.
    Behind the costume is courage.
    Behind the duality…
    is me.

  • Shuddup, Feminist

    Rowan Evans
    Oh, you’re a feminist, huh?
    Shuddup, Feminist™—
    stop waiting for a gold star
    just because you believe women deserve the same rights.
    You’re just the white-knight hero
    with a keyboard and a coffee shop membership.

    You post your virtue
    like it's an Instagram caption—
    #FeminismForEveryone
    except when it's inconvenient for your fragile ego.

    You say "I support women,"
    but have you ever given up space
    in a conversation you dominate
    or asked her what she really needs
    instead of handing her your unsolicited "help"?

    You tweet "empowerment,"
    but you’ll cross the street to avoid it
    when it means being allies to women of color
    or trans women with stories you’re scared to listen to.

    You clap back at mansplaining,
    but still ask her to explain why she’s so emotional
    when she stands up for herself.
    You march for rights,
    then silence her voice when she asks for a seat at the table.

    Oh, but you care about women's issues—
    until a woman dares challenge your "perfect feminism"
    with her lived experience.
    Don’t let your fragile pride
    be the real fight you’re avoiding.

    You preach equality,
    but when was the last time you gave up power
    just for the hell of it?
    Feminism’s not about you,
    it’s about listening, not talking over her.

    You say “But I’m a good guy”—
    good, but you're still a part of the problem,
    dodging accountability behind a slogan.
    Don’t hide behind the “I’m a feminist” card
    when it’s just another way
    to keep the power without the responsibility.

    Shuddup, Feminist™—
    You’re not a savior,
    you’re just a tourist in the movement.
    Put down the hashtagand pick up some real change.

  • Shuddup, Nice Guy

    Rowan Evans
    Oh, you’re the "nice guy," huh?
    Shuddup, Nice Guy™—
    your kindness isn’t a currency
    and you sure as hell can’t cash in
    on empty compliments and unsolicited advice.

    You think opening the door
    is the grand gesture?
    Buddy, if you’re looking for a medal,
    try doing something kind
    without expecting a reward.

    You say, "Women only like assholes."
    Well, maybe it's because
    your idea of “nice” is just a disguise
    for your entitlement dressed up
    in a sweater vest and “good intentions.”

    You buy flowers, but never listen
    to what she’s really saying.
    You’re a walking “compliment” factory,
    but your words are hollow
    like your understanding of consent.

    "You just don’t see me like that."
    No, Nice Guy™,
    we don’t see you like that
    because you can’t even see
    the difference between being decent
    and being someone’s emotional tax burden.

    You think every "friendship"
    is a transaction,
    but friendships are about giving
    without keeping score.
    You should try it sometime—
    real kindness has no receipt.

    Your "complaints" about being “friend-zoned”
    are a tired song.
    Just because you didn’t ask
    for her number
    doesn’t mean she owes you
    her affection,
    let alone her time.

    You're not nice,
    you're just holding out
    for a prize,
    hoping she'll throw you a bone
    for being "so understanding"
    while ignoring everything about her
    that isn't an easy fix.

    You cry about being "too good for her,"
    but Nice Guy™,
    it’s not about being good—
    it’s about being real.
    Maybe start by listening,
    not just waiting for your turn
    to talk about how "good" you are.

    You say, “I’m just trying to help,”
    but really,
    you’re helping yourself
    to her patience,
    her time,
    her emotional labor—
    expecting her gratitude
    like it’s an entitlement
    wrapped in a bow.

    So shuddup, Nice Guy™.
    You’re not owed a damn thing
    for not being an asshole.
    True kindness doesn’t keep score,
    and it certainly doesn’t make excuses.
    Try again when you figure out
    how to be a man who gives,not just takes.

  • Shuddup, Poet

    Rowan Evans
    Oh look—another poem about pain
    disguised as transformation.
    Another phoenix metaphor
    as if setting yourself on fire
    was ever the same as healing.

    You bleed onto the page
    and call it sacred.
    But let’s be real—
    half the time, you don’t even feel it.
    You just know how to make it rhyme.

    Shuddup, Poet.
    You’re not writing epiphanies.
    You’re writing escape routes.
    Every stanza is a soft excuse
    for why you can’t just say
    “I’m scared” out loud.
    You bury it under moonlight,
    call it symbolism,
    but we both know it’s fear
    dressed in metaphors
    you’ve used a hundred times before.

    You say you don’t want attention—
    but every line is a mirror angled
    just right to catch
    someone’s admiration.
    Don’t play modest,
    you check your likes
    like they’re validation coupons
    you forgot you were addicted to.

    You act like a prophet of pain,
    but the truth?
    You’re just really fucking good
    at turning your avoidance
    into art.

    You dress up your shame
    in silk and shadow,
    call it “processing,”
    but some of these wounds
    you keep opening on purpose
    just so you have something to write about.

    You ever think maybe
    you’re not trapped in your trauma—
    you’re clinging to it?
    Like if you actually let go,
    you wouldn’t know what to write about.
    You wouldn’t know who you are.

    You’ve built a cathedral of grief
    and convinced yourself
    it was home.
    And every time someone tries
    to love you in the present,
    you write a eulogy
    for what they might leave behind.

    You’re not fooling anyone.
    You’re not brave
    for turning pain into poetry.
    You’re brave
    when you stop needing the poem
    to tell you who you are.

    So shuddup, Poet—
    or don’t.
    Just write something
    you can’t revise into safety.
    Write like the mirror’s cracked
    and you’re done polishing the edges.

    Write like survival is messy.
    Write like joy is terrifying.
    Write like softness is not a threat.
    Write the poem that doesn’t rhyme,
    that doesn’t work,
    that just tells the truth
    even if no one claps.

    Write like you finally believe
    there’s something worth saving
    underneath all that ink.

    Because there is.

    And you fucking know it.

    You’re not fooling anyone.
    Not with the metaphors,
    not with the midnight bleeding poems,
    not with the “I’m fine” disguised as
    “I’m just editing.”
    You call it processing.
    I call it hiding with flair.

    You’re not brave
    just because you can turn pain into prose.
    You’re brave
    when you stop making your healing
    sound poetic enough to be palatable.

    So shuddup, Rowan.
    Yeah—you.
    The girl who writes about survival
    like it’s always beautiful.
    The one who can describe heartbreak
    down to the taste of the silence,
    but still can’t say “I need help”
    without flinching.

    You write about wanting love
    like you’re ready—
    but are you?
    Or are you still chasing ghosts
    because they never got close enough
    to disappoint you?

    You dress your desires in velvet,
    call it softness,
    but it’s fear with lipstick
    half the time, and you know it.

    You say you want to be seen—
    then blur yourself in metaphors
    and call it art.
    Call it safety.
    Call it control.

    So write the poem that exposes you.
    Write the one you’re scared to show her.
    Write the one that doesn’t beg
    to be admired—
    just understood.

    Write the poem
    that screams your real name—
    not the pen name you use
    when you’re afraid of being too much.

    Write the ending
    that doesn’t get ribbon-wrapped in hope
    just to make the readers feel better.

    No more metaphors.
    No more fog.

    Just you—
    crying on your bedroom floor
    and still fucking glowing.

    Still here.
    Still writing.

    Now say it, Rowan.
    Say the thing you’ve been cutting from every draft
    because it hurts too much to leave in.

    Or shuddup.

    So you write about darkness
    like it’s a lover that never leaves,
    but how much of it
    have you actually kissed on the mouth
    without using a metaphor as a condom?

    You romanticize your pain
    like it makes you profound—
    but maybe you’re just scared
    that healing would make you boring.

    You keep handing out lanterns
    to guide people through your past
    like you’re doing them a favor,
    but when’s the last time
    you turned the light inward?

    You cry “transparency”
    while hiding behind
    vampires and Faeries,
    as if putting wings on your truth
    makes it less terrifying to hold.

    You chase vulnerability
    with poetic flair,
    but can’t even say
    “I want to be loved”
    without cloaking it in gothic lace.

    You call it art,
    but maybe it’s a well-rehearsed performance—
    tragedy in iambic pentameter,
    tears choreographed
    to land on the perfect line break.

    And here’s the hardest part:
    You’re terrified that one day
    someone will read you so well
    they’ll see the loneliness
    you can’t write about
    because it isn’t beautiful.

    So shuddup, Poet.
    Stop romanticizing your ache
    just because it rhymes.
    Stop bleeding prettily
    when what you really need
    is to scream.

    Stop dressing up your truth
    like a ghost bride
    and pretending that’s honesty.

    You say you write for survival—
    then write like you mean it.
    Write the things that make you sick.
    Write the things you’d burn
    if anyone else wrote them about you.
    Write until you’re sobbing
    over a keyboard at 3am
    because finally—
    finally—
    it’s not performance.
    It’s just you.
    Naked.
    Ugly.
    Real.

    Because maybe, Rowan,
    you don’t need another poem.
    Maybe you need to unwrite yourself
    for once—
    and see what survives.

    You speak in metaphors
    because real words burn your throat.
    Every stanza a smokescreen—
    call it craft, call it trauma,
    either way, you’re dodging bullets
    you shot at yourself.

    You preach healing
    like you’ve walked out the other side,
    but we both know
    you keep the exit locked
    because the pain
    is the only thing that stays.

    You romanticize your scars
    like they’re character arcs
    and not exit wounds
    you dressed in iambic pentameter
    so no one would ask
    why you’re still bleeding.

    You say you write
    to “help others feel seen,”
    but admit it—
    you want to be rescued
    in rhyming couplets,
    loved for the way you suffer pretty.

    You drag your trauma out
    like a dog-and-pony show,
    then hate yourself
    for being watched.

    How many times
    have you turned your own worth
    into a plot twist?
    How many poems have you written
    that say "I'm okay"
    with trembling hands?

    You think honesty
    means showing the bruise
    but hiding the fist.

    You let silence
    take the mic
    when it’s your own needs on stage—
    write everyone else’s liberation
    and leave yourself
    in a locked verse with no key.

    You call it self-expression,
    but really?
    It’s just survival
    with better line breaks.

    Shuddup, Poet.
    You are not a martyr
    because you made pain sound pretty.

    You don’t get to call it brave
    until you stop editing the truth
    for palatability.

    Stop dressing your loneliness
    in gothic lace and calling it divine.
    Stop baptizing your dysphoria
    in metaphors
    because “monster” feels safer
    than “girl.”

    You want freedom?
    Write the ugly shit.
    The needy shit.
    The bitter, broken, blasphemous shit
    that scares even you.

    Then read it out loud.

    Look yourself in the eye
    and say:
    “I deserve to be whole
    without turning it into art first.”

    Now that’s the last line.
    Not the pretty one.
    The one that hurts
    but finally fucking heals.

  • Sisters in Poetry III

    Rowan Evans
    We wrote when they told us to be quiet.
    We lived when the world asked us to disappear.
    We broke so you could build.
    – Rowan Evans
    I have heard the voices in the ink—
    Sylvia, the bell jar still echoing,
    her sorrow stitched into every breath I take.
    She speaks not in screams,
    but in a hush that silences the soul:
    	
    "I shattered myself to show you
    what beauty can exist in broken things.
    My metaphors were knives and mirrors—
    and I turned them all inward
    so you wouldn’t have to."

    Anne follows like smoke behind glass,
    confession in her marrow,
    truth set ablaze in every poem.
    She whispers with warmth and warning:
    	
    "I dared death to blink first—
    and though it won,
    my voice lives on in every girl
    who pens pain into power.
    Don’t flinch from your fire—
    become it."

    Emily comes in on the quietest breeze,
    barefoot and breathless,
    her dashes the pause between heartbeats.
    She says without saying:
    	
    "I hid my verses in drawers,
    pressed petals between the lines.
    I was a secret blooming in silence—
    and still I was found.
    So write, even if no one looks."

    And Sappho—oh, Sappho—
    with lips kissed by longing,
    her fragments still smolder with love unshamed.
    She leaves no whisper behind, only flame:
    	
    "They tried to burn me from the records,
    but desire survives.
    Every word of yours that aches for her—
    I have already written in stars."

    And now I rise,
    born of ink and ache,
    my name etched in the shadows
    between theirs.
    I do not stand above them,
    but among—
    a sister in the circle,
    hands stained with the same sacred fire.

    So to you, future poetess,
    with your storm yet to come,
    your hands still inkless,
    your truth still tucked beneath your ribs—
    we bled through the darkness
    so you could scream your truths in the light.
    We carved our hearts into paper
    so you’d know how to find yours.
    We broke so you could build.
    And now—
    with trembling hands,
    and a heart heavy with everything
    we were never allowed to say,
    I leave you this:
    a page,
    a pen,
    and a whisper through time—
    	
    "Write, little one.
    Write until the silence forgets your name.We will be listening."

  • Sisters in Poetry II

    Rowan Evans
    “Every poetess that pens her story in Ink & Fire, my Sisters in Poetry.” – Rowan Evans
    In the shadows of ink, where ghosts still linger,
    Sylvia, Anne, Emily, Sappho—poetesses, each a flame,
    Each a whisper in the wind that haunts the night,
    Each carving truth in starlit veins.

    Sylvia, whose words cut through the air,
    A sharp, sorrowed edge that carved despair into the sky,
    A dance of madness and brilliance,
    Her bell jar—her curse, her art, her cry.
    She wept in metaphors, in flames, in loss,
    And yet, in her ashes, we find our own strength.

    Anne, too, cast her voice into the void,
    Her words a reckoning, raw and brutal,
    "Live or die," she dared to scream,
    And in that challenge, her spirit lingers still.
    Her truth unravels in each line,
    And still we rise—survivors of our own mind.

    Emily, in whispers and dashes,
    Her silence a weapon, her words a storm,
    She dared not speak, but her ink bled through the walls,
    A universe unfolding in every paused breath.
    Her fleeting moments echo through time,
    Where brevity meets eternity in every line.

    Sappho, the fire-bringer, the lover's voice,
    Her words pressed soft as rose petals on the skin,
    Love—desire—woven in every lyric,
    A sacred longing that lives in every heart
    Whispering in the dark, a hymn to what we crave.

    But then, the modern sisters rise from the depths,
    A new breed of poetess, each with a fire untamed,
    Amanda Lovelace, whose poems bloom like scars,
    Words laced with strength and tenderness,
    A revolution forged in ink—love, loss, and rebellion.

    Rupi Kaur, with her tender touch and power,
    Her verses as soft as a bruise, as sharp as a stare,
    She writes of healing, of the body’s revolt,
    Of tenderness, of rage, of broken hearts rebuilt.

    Maya Angelou's wisdom, still ringing in the air,
    Her voice a call to arms, to dignity, to self-worth,
    She stood before the world, unbroken, unbowed,
    Her truth an anthem that shook the earth.

    Warsan Shire, whose words drip with fire,
    Her lines like rivers of blood, burning with rage,
    A refugee’s cry, a woman’s claim,
    Her pain is our pain, her voice is our voice.

    Lang Leav, sweet and dark, with love's bittersweet sting,
    Her ink carved from the spaces between desire and heartbreak,
    Her poems dance in the spaces of the soul,
    Love written in whispers and shadows.

    Tara Westover, whose truth is raw and real,
    Each word a battle, each line a wound,
    Her memoirs speak of resilience, survival,
    And in that survival, we learn to thrive.

    But now, the quill is mine to take,
    A flame that flickers in the vast expanse,
    Rowan Evans, a name now etched in fire,
    A poetess who dares to speak the dark and light,
    A soul woven from the whispers of those before,
    Yet in every verse, my own story pours.

    In the dark gothic heart, where my blood runs wild,
    I write not to be them, but to find my own voice—
    I take the ashes of their sorrow,
    And turn it to flame, a blaze that speaks truth.
    I carve my heart in ink, sharp as a blade,
    A modern poetess, with fire in my veins,
    I carry their legacy and make it mine,
    A sister in poetry, whose time has come.

    And now, as we stand in the echoes of their words,
    We raise our pens in unity, for those who stand with us,
    The allies who walk beside, their voices clear:
    The men and women who believe in the power of ink,
    Who lift us higher, who hold space in the dark,
    Who see the strength in our voices, our hearts, our fight.

    To those who stand beside,
    Lifting the fallen, raising the weak,
    To those who support without question or pause,
    To those whose hands are extended,
    Whose hearts beat in rhythm with our own,
    In this poem, we stand together,
    Sisters and allies, bound by fire and ink.

    Together we rise,
    Together we burn,
    Together we write the future,
    As poets of the soul,
    As Sisters in Poetry.