For me, language is something to climb through, rearrange, break apart, rebuild, and occasionally weaponize for the sake of a really bad joke. Mythology and symbolism are still part of that world, but they aren’t walls I hide behind anymore—they’re architecture. They give the imagination somewhere to live while the poet underneath it keeps revealing himself, piece by piece.
The Playground (Language, Metaphors and More) is an invitation into that space.
It is part creative philosophy, part victory lap, part conversation with the page—and, naturally, part terrible knock-knock joke. Because if I’ve spent twenty-three years turning language into a playground, I’m going to play.
— Rowan Evans
The page isn’t a cage. It’s a playground—and I’ve brought my own rules.
The Playground (Language, Metaphors and More) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I sat down—
with the intent to write,
had a lot of ideas
on my mind tonight—
like what if the moon
was a witness?
And the tide a guide through
the emotional current
in the room—
but that’s just if I
went the route
of mythology,
symbolism—
and everything
I used to hide behind.
That’s not how I use it now—
it’s still my mythology,
symbolic architecture—
giving my words texture—
but I don’t
hide behind it—
I use it now,
to show the art of me,
getting to the deeper
heart of me—
not the whole picture,
just a small part of me.
I’ve been doing this
for twenty-three
years and counting—
and I’m definitely
not on my way out now—
I’ll hit my second, third,
fourth and fifth wind,
any day now—
I’ve turned language
into my fucking playground—
everything is a game now.
Just conversating
with the page now—
I’m done pretending,
like I don’t write flames now—
poetry’s royalty,
I’m taking my crown now—
and I think it’s time you all
bow down—
look I’m going to make a joke,
turn into a clown now.
Why don’t we slow down?
I’ll tell you that joke now—
Knock, Knock—
who’s there?
Disa—
Disa-who?
Disa-me? I disa-you—
with a line so mean
you’ll want to disappear,
wish you were never here—
here’s a warning, dear:
If you see my ravens,
perched upon your lawn—
it’s an omen—
you are already gone.
Journey into the Hexverse
[The Metaphor Machine] A poem that takes apart its own machinery as it runs—breaking lines, breaking thoughts, and following metaphors from moonlight to tides, oceans, shorelines, and city streets.
[Confession or Cap?] A sharp and playful look at the line between confession and exaggeration, where a nice poet admits that their pen sometimes talks a little too much shit—and occasionally sets the page on fire.
The Sacred Timeline is a map of how my relationship with the pen has changed over nearly three decades of my life.
I started with stories about worlds that already existed—Dragon Ball Z, Power Rangers, Pokémon—and slowly began building worlds of my own. Then the pen became a way to learn cadence, translate music, hide things I couldn’t say aloud, survive periods when writing itself became difficult, and eventually turn pain into something crafted enough to share.
Every era left something behind: the storyteller, the songwriter, the secret keeper, the gothic romantic, the heretic, the battle poet, the confessor, the mythmaker. Some symbols came and stayed. Some meanings changed. Some questions took decades to become clear enough to write down.
And the timeline is still moving.
At thirty-six, I don’t consider the pen mastered so much as understood differently. Writing is still an experiment. The boundaries keep moving. The imagery keeps evolving. The person holding the pen keeps changing.
Maybe that’s the most sacred part of the timeline: the ink stayed, but I didn’t.
— Rowan Evans
Thirty-six years, countless pages, one pen—and an identity still being written.
The Sacred Timeline Poetry by Rowan Evans
I picked up a pen for the first time at seven, I was just writing stories then— Dragonball Z, Power Rangers and Pokémon… that’s what I wrote about way back when—
it was much lighter out, the sun had yet to meet the clouds— I was a natural storyteller, a real lore keeper, weaving lore before I even knew what lore meant. It was like this for years, I created my own space in worlds provided by minds much older than mine.
Then at ten—I switched what the pen meant to me, my creativity shifted mentally— no longer was I just a storyteller, I was letting music be the teacher now. Translating thoughts to song, at least the words of it— I was writing to worship something. Something that in six short years, I would begin to question—
but the years between ten and then—were spent, using the pen to learn cadence. I was trying to learn to perform on the page— I couldn’t do it in body, but I could turn a notebook to a stage.
At twelve things began to shift again, but with me, not with the pen— I still felt the sun, I still saws its rays, but I also saw more cloudy days— that year was hard for me, I couldn’t talk about it with clarity— most people would react like, “you’re scaring me”— so I stopped talking about it really, I closed my lips, but still let the ink spill— the page became a secret keeper, keeping the secrets this storyteller was too afraid to say out loud.
Thirteen the skies went dark— this is when life really got hard. At the beginning of the year, it’s like the ink in my pen had begun to dry— I don’t know what was wrong, but I couldn’t write. I tried and I tried— pages ripped from notebooks, balled up and scattered.
No songs, no stories— I had lost interest in things that I used to find most interesting. Parents took me to the doctor, and the doctor said—
“This kid’s depressed— and anxious too, I’ll write a prescription that should do. A referral for therapy, they’ll get them to talk— they’ll find out what’s wrong.”
A week would go by— giving the medicine a try, it takes time— it has to build up in your system. In the meantime, here’s a therapist, someone to talk to— they’ll listen to your problems, they’ll help you.
And they did—a little bit, they got me to talk a little bit too. But still they saw I was holding back— so they recommended journaling, but that felt tedious and boring. I needed to find a way to make it play— bring a little joy to it, even if falsified.
I made it a game to translate my pain— how many ways could I say everything? Is it possible to flip it? Maybe change the script and shift the meaning? These were the questions I began to ask— even when my ink ran in all black—
back when my heart was all cracks, before I learned how to use the gold to patch— I struggled through, just writing purely what I felt— thirteen, fourteen and fifteen, often felt like hell.
Sixteen, I hit my stride— not in life but with a pen, things were hard still, but now I could translate with skill. Not much, if we’re being honest— just enough to keep the pain beautiful, in case someone else saw it—
Seventeen, I did it again— reinvented myself with the pen, more gothic in my intentions. Maybe I finally read Poe, who knows— but ravens became a part of my soul.
At eighteen, I went from church steeples and church people to writing cathedrals for outcasts and heretics— we hadn’t yet, become luminous. Shadows and lace, velvet and venom— but I also opened my eyes more, became more aware of the world around— outside the borders I’m confined in.
At twenty, I started to write for people more—to uplift, and let them know they’re not alone— whatever they were going through, there was somebody with them. Even from a distance—
I had friends across seas, in places with palm trees— and in places with Kangaroos, even scarier—Emu.
I don’t know what that means in this piece—but it’s true, so do with that, what you’re going to do.
At twenty-two, I got more serious about the ink— I started to write everything. Every thought and every half-formed idea— I just put it on a page, my brain would not be a cage.
Then came twenty-five, the lowest point in my life— it wasn’t a sudden crash, but a slow rot— it bled through every thought, a feeling I couldn’t translate, familiar but different, heavier somehow— so the ink slowed to a drip, I started to let thoughts slip.
Twenty-six, I got serious again— more aggressive with the time spent, my pieces became more crafted and the ink was shaped with intention. Ravens, the moon, and roses too— the symbols I began to use.
I ascend on the back of raven wings— the silver light of the moon pierced the canopy—rose petals drift in the shifting currents of the wind. Everything connects, pay more attention and you’ll become more aware—
At thirty— I really began to question everything— who I was, who I am, who I want to be— and that’s still a question I’m working on answering. But it went deeper than that— I was questioning who I was in a deeper sense, like had I been a façade in some sense. Was I playing the role I was assigned, or being true to who I thought I was becoming?
This became a recurring theme in my poetry— it’s an odd thing to discover so late in life, that the person you thought you were— isn’t who you’re supposed to be. So I chased answers in ink to questions I couldn’t fully ask yet.
There were two more years of this— and I’m still not finished.
Thirty-three hit with another shift— I mixed the light with the shadow, it was Easter in the cathedral— pastel colors lit up the stained glass. My imagery began to shift shades— roses in all colors, pastel hues, but the thorns were still there too. So even my softness had bite—
and it evolved more, by thirty-four— more teeth but more softness too. Brighter hues and deeper shadows— this is when I learned, you can’t have one without the other.
The shadow needs the light to cast— and you need the shade to dim the shine, because too much shine— you might go blind.
Then came thirty-five— the modern era, the current phase, one year before the current day— and I know this won’t age well, it’s too time specific—
Finally, we’ve reached thirty-six, and I feel like I’ve mastered this— but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped learning, because every day is an experiment— really, it’s all about the experience— just learning new things and pushing it, finding where the boundary is and bending it, you gotta realize— you can’t always give a shit, who cares what they think— it’s your ink—shape it how you see fit.
Journey into the Hexverse
[The Metaphor Machine] A poem that takes apart its own machinery as it runs—breaking lines, breaking thoughts, and following metaphors from moonlight to tides, oceans, shorelines, and city streets.
[Exhibit A (The Evidence)] A quick-witted, unapologetically playful poem about writing fast, crossing lines, roasting the competition, and letting rhythm do the talking.
[Welcome to the Hexverse] Step into the Hexverse—a poetic world where mythmaking, humor, rage, creativity, and confession collide, and darkness becomes something that can be reshaped into art.
The Metaphor Machine is a poem about the machinery behind my own poetry. I wanted to pull back the curtain and show what happens when a single line starts generating connections: moonlight becomes tide, tide becomes ocean, ocean becomes shoreline, shoreline becomes city streets, and suddenly the poem has wandered somewhere entirely different.
The joke is that I’m explaining the process while actively doing it. The poem breaks its own lines, interrupts its own thoughts, calls attention to its metaphors, and then circles back to reveal that all those seemingly wandering pieces were connected by the same machine.
Sometimes I don’t choose the metaphor. I just follow where it takes me.
— Rowan Evans
One metaphor becomes another, and the machine keeps running.
The Metaphor Machine Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ll write a line in a way
that’ll make you pause—
then I’ll take that line
and break that line,
to break the thought—
then I sprinkle in the metaphors,
and this is really what I get meta for—
I talk about the moon
and the silver light,
the way it shimmers—
its image trembles
across the top
of dark water—
that’s one I’ve said before.
And I’ve said it lot,
but I’m not going to stop.
This is where the tides comes,
and there the tide goes—
because that’s how the tide works.
And the ocean—
this is a poem, I wrote…
you didn’t think
we were going to skip this one,
did you?
And the ocean,
it’s so polite—
the way it waves,
every time it sees my face.
It’s a familiar place,
I sit on the shoreline, often—
not in reality, but in my mind—
that’s where the thoughts soften.
Now, for the city streets—
the heat, and god—
that humidity, the way it clings.
You’d think I’d dream of…
somewhere less…
humid? But I digress,
it’s always love that I express
for the islands I haven’t touched yet.
If you’re following along—
I wrote a line
that made you pause—
then I took that line
and I broke that line—
and that broke the thought.
Then that’s where the pivot came,
I told you what I really went meta for.
It’s the metaphors.
Moon to tide,
tied to the ocean—
a shoreline or two,
next to the ocean blue—
then beaches to city streets,
it’s the same ones I walk in sleep.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Welcome to the Hexverse] Step into the Hexverse—a poetic world where mythmaking, humor, rage, creativity, and confession collide, and darkness becomes something that can be reshaped into art.
[High Tide] A short reflective poem about leaving, returning, and accepting the forces that pull us back—like the tide guided by the moon.
[Let Me Pacific] A lyrical poem about sitting beside the Pacific Ocean and discovering that an enormous body of water can become a bridge between distant hearts. Through ocean imagery, wordplay, and reflections on California and the Philippines, Let Me Be Pacific explores how love and poetry can cross even the greatest distances.
[Did You Really Think This Was About Trees?] A playful love poem disguised as a forest of terrible tree puns. Beneath the birch, oak, cedar, palms, lumber, and absurdist wordplay is a poem about devotion, loyalty, laughter, and building a life with someone you love.
I’ve always had a complicated relationship with the voice that comes through my pen.
Sometimes it tells the truth. Sometimes it exaggerates. Sometimes it gets a little too comfortable talking shit.
And sometimes I genuinely can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
So before you read this one, there’s really only one question worth asking:
Is it confession—or cap?
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the pen tells the truth. Sometimes it talks shit. Sometimes it does both.
Confession or Cap? Poetry by Rowan Evans
Ask anyone and they’ll tell you— I’m nice and that’s true, but my pen can be mean when it speaks— so when I write, you’ve gotta ask— is it confession—
or am I just talking my shit again?
I’ve dissed other poets before— said they were boring, put me to sleep and called them all Watson— because their rhymes were elementary. So when you say I’m great?
No shit, Sherlock.
I’ve written the copies of copies, and the copies that copied that—
inspired less by poets and more by rap—
that’s why when my pen gets hot, I don’t know how to stop— so I pen fire and burn my hands, (ouch!) what am I sayin’? Everything I drop—
Flames.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Fine, Fire It Is] A playful poem about abandoning an ice metaphor, getting carried away with fire, and discovering that sometimes the best description of a poet’s pen is something that refuses to cool down.
[Exhibit A] A quick-witted, unapologetically playful poem about writing fast, crossing lines, roasting the competition, and letting rhythm do the talking.
[Why So Serious?] A playful, chaotic poem packed with pop-culture references, superhero imagery, Disney characters, wordplay, and the kind of ridiculous puns that make the poet wonder why they were ever given a pen.
[Welcome to the Hexverse] Step into the Hexverse—a poetic world where mythmaking, humor, rage, creativity, and confession collide, and darkness becomes something that can be reshaped into art.
This piece started with ice, took a few unexpected detours through pop-culture references, and eventually decided that being “cold” was nowhere near the right description anyway.
So I stopped fighting the metaphor and let the fire take over.
Because sometimes the pen doesn’t freeze.
It smolders.
— Rowan Evans
The metaphor started cold. The pen decided it had something hotter to say.
Fine, Fire It Is Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ll drop a Frozen bar because I’m cold—
Emma Frost—hold on—that reference doesn’t land,
it’s not ice, her skin turns to diamonds, man.
It wasn’t in reference to her skin—
well, what was it then?
Her cold ass personality, duh, that’s the reality—
she’s not nice, she’s mean—a real Ice Queen.
Could have gotten there faster
with Iceman, Bobby Drake—
Or better yet, I could have said—
I’ll drop a Frozen bar, because I’m cold—
like Frozone, where’s my super suit?
Fine.
We’ll skip ice.
That’d be nice,
right?
Cool—
no, wait—
not cool.
We said we’re done with that.
Fine then,
fire it is—
I pen flames,
draggin’ ink across the page
like a dragon’s rage—
scorchin’ margins,
burnin’ through the lines
like I’m tryin’ to cremate the rhyme.
See?
This is why I shouldn’t switch metaphors—
I get carried away,
turn a spark into a wildfire,
turn a wildfire into a prophecy,
turn a prophecy into a punchline.
But whatever—
heat fits better anyway.
I’m not cold,
I’m molten—
I don’t freeze,
I smolder.
And if ice didn’t land,
fire always will—
because even when I’m calm,
my pen still smokes
from the last thing I wrote.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Exhibit A] A quick-witted, unapologetically playful poem about writing fast, crossing lines, roasting the competition, and letting rhythm do the talking.
[Why So Serious?] A playful, chaotic poem packed with pop-culture references, superhero imagery, Disney characters, wordplay, and the kind of ridiculous puns that make the poet wonder why they were ever given a pen.
[Welcome to the Hexverse] Step into the Hexverse—a poetic world where mythmaking, humor, rage, creativity, and confession collide, and darkness becomes something that can be reshaped into art.
Not to rewrite what I was, but to see what happens when the person holding the pen has changed.
“Hell’s Protégé” began in December 2024. This remix, written in July 2026, keeps the bones of that original piece while giving the language a little more room to breathe, sharpen, and burn.
Same Hell.
Different poet.
— Rowan Evans
Same Hell. Different poet.
Hell’s Protégé (Remix) Poetry by Rowan Evans (written July 30th, 2026)
They call me the evil one—
horns on my dome,
devils on my shoulders,
calling Hell my home.
Chasing dreams—
he promised in infernal schemes,
under the Morningstar’s light,
unraveling at the seams.
The noose hangs loose—for-her,
Lucifer’s muse, pen in my fist,
spitting truth like molten fuse.
Aspiring to be your poetic, satanic leader,
words sharp as blades,
cutting deeper and deeper.
Kool-Aid in red solo cups,
toasts raised to sin,
pages pinned to the corkboard—
where do I begin?
It’s a crime scene in rhyme scheme,
a fevered conspiracy,
lines so wicked…
even Hell envies me.
I’m Satan’s next of kin,
heir to his throne,
sitting beside him,
a kingdom of fire my own.
Next in line,
when his time is done,
Hell’s mini-me,
wielding the infernal tongue.
Feel the brimstone burn with every word I spit,
a pyroclastic flow of raw, unholy grit—
you smell the sulfur,
you hear the chains rattle,
every verse a battlefield,
every line a battle.
The taste of ashes lingers,
bitter and raw,
the ink on my skin reads:
“Hell’s Final Law.”
The roar of the damned is my symphony of screams,
I’m the nightmare invading your holy dreams—
but don’t confuse the darkness
for a lack of art—
every rhyme a blade,
cutting straight to the heart.
You feel the heat,
see the flames dance and twirl,
I’m not here to save…
just to own this world.
So call me what you want—
devil, poet, deceiver,
but bow when you hear me,
your cult leader.
the crown is mine,
infernal and divine,
Hell’s next ruler,
writing my diabolic design.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Hell’s Protégé & Caged Birds Don’t Bow] Dive into Rowan Evans’ twin poems, Hell’s Protégé and Caged Birds Don’t Bow, where fire meets freedom. Explore devotion, rebellion, and unapologetic truth through lyrical darkness and diss-track energy.
Every poet eventually builds a world around their words.
Sometimes it starts with a page, sometimes with a character, sometimes with a joke—and sometimes it grows into something much bigger than expected.
So, consider this an introduction.
Welcome to the Hexverse.
— Rowan Evans
Welcome to the Hexverse—where words become worlds, darkness becomes art, and the poet becomes the mythmaker.
Welcome to the Hexverse Poetry by Rowan Evans
Welcome to the Hexverse…
where the poet is mythmaker,
comedian and confessor,
part-time Pokémon professor—
cathedral keeper, secret weaver
with words that’ll turn worlds to believers—
multiverse shaper, multiform creator,
poet in heart, rapper in mind,
legend with pen, divine—
see the poet light up the dark,
they are the spark—the heart,
turning darkness into art—
translating rage from cage,
put it on the page in bars—
watch the poet bend the night,
shape the fight, ignite—
turning chaos into scripture,
pain into a living picture—
twist words to heal hurt,
metaphors make you think first—
the poet will pen a pail of water
to quench thirst—
but you can only lead the horse to it.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Louder Than the Rain] A short confessional poem about the overwhelming noise of anxious thoughts, the strange silence of feeling alone in a crowded room, and finding a way to translate pain into words.
[Let Me Be Pacific] A lyrical poem about sitting beside the Pacific Ocean and discovering that an enormous body of water can become a bridge between distant hearts. Through ocean imagery, wordplay, and reflections on California and the Philippines, Let Me Be Pacific explores how love and poetry can cross even the greatest distances.
[My Nightmare] A poem about the nightmare of loving someone across distance, seeing the world from different perspectives, and holding onto the hope that the cracks can still be repaired—and that someday two separate shores might become one.
[Rose & Ruin] Two minimalist poems exploring the opposing forces within creativity: the thoughts we cultivate into something beautiful and the darker thoughts we transform before they have a chance to decay.
[Conductor] A dark, intimate poem about the strange power words can have over the reader—where rhythm, rhyme, and line breaks become instruments capable of reaching beyond the page.
I originally wrote these as two separate pieces, but once I stepped back and read them together, I realized they were having the same conversation.
Kaio-ken with a Pen is the attack: speed, confidence, exaggerated battle-rap energy, and the idea that my mind can move faster than the people trying to keep up with it. The pen becomes the weapon, and Dragon Ball becomes the language I’m using to describe that creative intensity.
Then came Zenkai (Stronger Now).
That one felt like the natural aftermath. In Dragon Ball, a Zenkai is the idea of becoming stronger after surviving a near-death experience. That concept fit perfectly with the way I think about resilience: sometimes you get pushed to the edge, you survive the fight, and you come back with something you didn’t have before.
So together, these poems became something of a two-part battle sequence:
I attack with the pen. I survive the fight. I come back stronger.
Neither piece is meant as a literal threat toward anyone. They’re me having fun with battle-poetry, Dragon Ball references, ridiculous power scaling, and the sheer joy of seeing how far I can push a metaphor before it explodes.
Basically: Battle Rowan went Super Saiyan.
— Rowan Evans
One poem is the attack.
Kaio-ken with a Pen Poetry by Rowan Evans
I can go Super Saiyan easy,
the way Chi Chi teached me—
taught me, I forgot you see
I’m the best, yes,
don’t want to step to this—
you don’t want to fought me—
fight me, I mean—bitch bite me,
you’re not like me.
My mind is terrifyingly quick—
thoughts comes, instant transmission—
from my mind to the page
in a Final Flash attack—
Kaio-ken with a pen, is this the end?
Fin.
Kaio-ken with a pen, I’m at it again,
this is my battle to win.
It’s going take you, a Kamehameha
and Kaio-ken times ten just to test me—
but it won’t be enough to best me.
The other is what happens when you survive it.
Zenkai (Stronger Now) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m Goku after a fight
and a Senzu bean,
you know what that means—
I’ve gotten stronger now,
you pushed me to the edge—
took me to the brink,
but you couldn’t end it—
you couldn’t finish me.
So do your little dance,
put on the Potara—do it—
put your minds together,
just know, even two as one—
you won’t get the job done.
I won’t borrow strength from no one,
don’t need no spirit bomb
to drop bombs—
No Kamehameha—
just ha-ha, I’m laughin’ at you.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Don’t Push Me] A playful battle-poetry piece about turning insults into punchlines, standing your ground, and refusing to be intimidated. Don’t Push Me mixes swagger, humor, rhyme, and Rowan Evans’ signature self-aware interruptions.
[B.S.T.F.U.] A playful battle-poetry exercise packed with insults, internal rhymes, punchlines, wordplay, and literary swagger. B.S.T.F.U. is Rowan Evans flexing the verbal muscles—not calling out anyone in particular.
Sometimes I genuinely wonder what happens when I give my brain permission to write whatever it wants.
The answer, apparently, is sandwiches, pasta, farmers on Pluto, raccoons in silk pajamas, llamas, trees, cartoon ghosts, monsters, seven deadly sins, and a journey across an ocean that does not technically exist.
And honestly?
I love it.
Across the Page-cific (Chasing Storms) is a celebration of the strange places my writing can go when I stop trying to force it into a single shape.
This poem deliberately references several of my recent pieces and recurring worlds. The sandwich wordplay comes from Lost in the Sauce. The pasta-based literary assault comes from Impasta (A Diss in Pasta Form). The trees point back to my playful botanical wordplay, while Danny Phantom, the Monster in the Margins, the Seven Deadly Sonnets, ravens, spirits, and other imagery come from the larger mythology and vocabulary I’ve been building throughout my work.
The references aren’t just Easter eggs.
They’re evidence.
Evidence of how much my writing has changed—and how much more willing I am now to let different parts of my voice coexist.
For a long time, I thought I needed to choose what kind of writer I was supposed to be.
Gothic poet.
Confessional poet.
Love poet.
Dark poet.
Funny poet.
Experimental poet.
But the more I write, the less interested I am in choosing.
I want to write the heartbreak poem with sandwich ingredients.
I want Tony Stanza to write a pasta diss.
I want to turn mythology into autobiography.
I want to write about ghosts and gods, then turn around and make a terrible pun.
I want to chase a metaphor until it becomes absurd.
And then, underneath all of it, I want to find something honest.
That is what the storms in this poem represent.
The chaotic lines.
The sudden cadence changes.
The ideas that arrive from nowhere.
The parts of my mind that refuse to walk in a straight line.
I used to think I needed to calm those storms down.
Now?
I chase them.
Because writing has become a playground again.
And somewhere in that playground, I keep finding pieces of myself I hadn’t finished discovering.
“It was writing that saved me” is therefore not a throwaway line.
Writing gave me a language for experiences I couldn’t always explain directly. It gave me somewhere to put the contradictions, the humor, the darkness, the questions, the love, the anger, the absurdity, and everything else that makes up the person behind the pen.
Piece by piece.
Bit by bit.
I rebuilt myself in the art.
And apparently, sometimes that art looks like a sandwich, a bowl of pasta, and a storm on the Pacific.
I’ll take it.
— Rowan Evans
I stopped trying to avoid the storms. I started chasing them across the page.
Across the Page-cific (Chasing Storms) Poetry by Rowan Evans
Let’s see, what other ridiculous thing
can we turn into poetry—
I’ve written a heartbreak poem
using sandwich ingredients,
and wrote a diss poem
using nothing but pasta noodles—
was a farmer on Pluto,
witnessed raccoons in silk pajamas
perched on the backs of llamas—
while I shaped love poems
out of the trees—
I’ve turned Danny Phantom
into religion—a whole faith
on “going ghost”—
but really it’s just me stuck
between worlds.
I’ve written as the monster in the margins
and the spirits in the room—
seven sins that act like tax on the soul.
Go against the monster, you won’t leave whole.
Feeling like Pennywise, grin wide,
’cause I’m a clown in my rhymes
sometimes—
I’ve taken trips
in ink-dipped ships
across the page-cific—
avoiding storms of chaotic lines
and jagged rhymes
with sudden cadence changes.
Just kidding—
I chased the storms across the page,
embraced the pace my brain gave.
It was writing that saved me—
it gave me a way to translate me,
piece by piece and bit by bit,
I rebuilt myself in the art of lit—
where a mind like mine appears rarely.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Lost in the Sauce] A playful heartbreak poem where sandwiches, ketchup, mustard, rye, lettuce, and sourdough become metaphors for emotional confusion. Beneath the food puns is a speaker trying to understand how everything went from “we’re okay” to suddenly feeling cold.
[Impasta] Tony Stanza is back with another literary attack—and this time, he’s bringing pasta. Spaghetti, fettuccine, macaroni, ravioli, and angel hair become weapons in a ridiculous diss aimed at a poet whose rhymes are allegedly cheesy, fragile, and completely impasta.
[Pluto Farmer] A whimsical absurdist poem about being a certified weirdo, farming space carrots on Pluto, and refusing to fit into anyone else’s definition of “normal.”
[Raccoons in Silk Pajamas] What begins with judgmental Space Chickens quickly spirals into camels in parked cars, elephants in jam jars, raccoons in silk pajamas, and astronauts in the ocean. A playful absurdist poem about language, imagination, and what happens when you stop trying to control where the words go.
[Did You Really Think This Was About Trees?] A playful love poem disguised as a forest of terrible tree puns. Beneath the birch, oak, cedar, palms, lumber, and absurdist wordplay is a poem about devotion, loyalty, laughter, and building a life with someone you love.
[Danny Phantom Theology] What begins as a metaphor borrowed from a childhood cartoon becomes something deeper: a reflection on existing between survival and possibility, exhaustion and hope, the life we have and the life we long for. Danny Phantom Theology explores what it means to keep moving toward a future that feels worth living.
[The Monster in the Margins II] The Monster in the Margins II transforms Rowan Evans’s Seven Deadly Sins mythology into a horror story written between the lines, where Lust, Wrath, Sloth, Greed, Pride, Envy, and Gluttony become monsters growing from pain, grudges, and scars.
The one who can write about anything, and the one who struggles to write the one thing that matters most.
This poem begins with confidence—almost arrogance—as the speaker celebrates the ability to write in any voice, on any subject, from any perspective. But beneath that confidence is a question I’ve wrestled with for years: if it’s so easy to write about everything, why is it so difficult to write one completely honest sentence?
Humor, metaphors, references, and wordplay are some of my favorite tools. They help me explore ideas, soften difficult emotions, and make heavy subjects more approachable. But they can also become places to hide.
One Honest Sentence is about recognizing that difference. Sometimes the greatest challenge isn’t finding beautiful language—it’s finding the courage to stop decorating the truth long enough to simply say it.
— Rowan Evans
Writing beautifully is a skill.
Writing honestly is a different kind of courage.
One Honest Sentence Poetry by Rowan Evans
I don’t usually like to do this, but
I’m going to do it anyway, because
I’m tired of pretending—
why should I lie and say
I’m not that guy,
when I know I am.
Give me a pen,
and I can write anything.
If a person can think it
or have an experience,
I can turn it into poetry.
I do it by stringing ink
into so many pretty lines—
but I don’t bother to try
and rhyme, most of the time.
I wrote poem after poem—
I can write a poem about the search for home
while feeling alone in a crowded room,
talking about how this house feels like a tomb.
I can write island hopping epics—
I can silence skeptics,
put their opinions in the septic—
they don’t know
shhh—
it’s no wonder they talk a lot,
their minds are empty, got no thoughts.
So the verbal diarrhea doesn’t stop—
and when I read what they write,
I call them Watson
’cause their lines are elementary.
I’ve written thirty lines of flex
and after thirty lines,
you’re probably wondering—
what’s next?
Well—
how about we pivot
from flex to truth?
Earlier I said—
give me a pen and I can
write anything.
I can take the joy, the pain,
the sun, the rain
and write a whole damn series—
it’s even easier
if it didn’t happen to me,
I can write about it for days—
poem after poem,
different angles of the same thing.
Because it’s easy
writing about just anything—
what’s hard is writing
a single truth,
without burying it in jokes
and misdirection.
And maybe that’s the joke—
I can write whole worlds,
but not one honest sentence
without my pulse stuttering.
Like what would happen—
if I just said it?
If I turned 1-4-3 to letters
and I just meant it?
Would the world cease to be?
I guess I’m just afraid—
because once I say it,
I can’t unsay it.
Once I write it,
it becomes real.
And real things
can be lost,
can be rejected,
can be held—
and I don’t know
which scares me more.
So again I ask—
what would happen
if I just said it?
Maybe you’d laugh.
Maybe you’d freeze.
Maybe you’d say it back.
Maybe nothing would change
except—
I’d finally be done
hiding behind metaphors.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Noon Is Loud] If four in the morning belongs to truth, then noon belongs to impossible memories. Noon Is Loud is a playful free verse poem filled with absurd boasts, pop culture references, and tongue-in-cheek mythology that explores how easily imagination can rewrite reality.
[Just Human] Just Human is a reflective free verse poem about seeing people before borders, choosing empathy over division, and finding home in our shared humanity rather than on a map.
[Director’s Commentary] Director’s Commentary is a self-aware free verse poem that turns the poet’s recurring metaphors into the subject itself, exploring creativity, artistic habits, and the humorous inner critic that follows every writer from draft to draft.
[The Answer Is (Yes)] What kind of writer am I? Mythmaker, confessor, comedian, philosopher, dream-architect, romantic, storyteller, and diss-poet. This self-reflective poem explores the impossibility of fitting creativity into a single category—and embraces every version of the truth a pen can touch.
[Before We Created the Labels] Ancient gods return to a fractured world shaped by borders, identities, and separation. “Before We Created the Labels” explores humanity’s divisions through mythic imagery, sacred ritual, and symbolic collapse—asking what remains when we learn to see one another beyond labels.
