This piece came from that disorienting in-between space—when your thoughts scatter, your body feels unreal, and you’re not sure how you got there. Sometimes it isn’t logic that brings you back. Sometimes it’s a voice. A laugh. A presence that reminds you who you are.
Sometimes all it takes is a voice to bring you back.
Grounded Poetry by Rowan Evans
Sterile white walls,
fluorescent bulbs
light the halls—
I stumble
and fall,
sprawled
across the floor.
What was I
even here for?
Vision snaps.
Vision blurs.
Voices heard.
I’m not alone.
It’s me
my thoughts
and I—
Flicker and fade,
between here
and anywhere.
Voices echo.
Voices linger.
Touch—
Soft and grounding,
it brings me back
to myself.
Slowly. Blinking.
It’s her voice…
Her voice echoes,
and reverberates.
A giggle. A laugh.
When the Mask Slips explores the fragile boundary between performed sanity and inner unraveling. Through vivid imagery, surreal metaphor, and a self-aware voice, Rowan Evans captures the terror and beauty of identity under pressure, where the mask may be all that stands between perception and emptiness.
When the Mask Slips visualized: a lone figure navigating the fragile line between performance and inner self.
When the Mask Slips Poetry by Rowan Evans
I am going to be honest—
I think I’ve lost my mind, I’ve been drifting in this mental fog. Wandering. Lost. Not sure what I was trying to find, not sure what was the cost.
But I’ve been— orbiting annihilation, facing Armageddon in phases— the moon isn’t the only thing that disappears piece by piece.
I keep losing track of my thoughts like loose teeth— wiggling them just to feel something give. I’m just a Mad Hatter, with a Cheshire grin— screaming “Off with their heads!” just to hear the echo— make sure the room and I are still real.
Sometimes— I cosplay sanity, like I have a grasp on reality. Like I know the meaning of stability— mentally. I dress up, pretend that I’m normal— but it feels too boring and formal, too exposed. Too much light, not enough shade, too many eyes on my face.
And underneath it all, I’m terrified there’s nothing there— when the world stops being a stage, when existence stops being a performance. When the mask slips… and it’s just me.
(God, what if that’s worse?)
Author’s Note
This poem sits at the edge between humor and unraveling—between the persona we show the world and the version of ourselves we hope no one ever sees. It isn’t about insanity; it’s about the fear that sanity might be nothing more than costume, choreography, and survival instinct.
It uses absurdity as honesty, because sometimes the surreal is the only language for a fraying mind. The Wonderland imagery isn’t playful fantasy—it’s metaphorical dissociation. The poem is meant to feel unsteady, spiraling, self-aware, and a little unhinged. It asks:
What if the mask isn’t hiding anything?
What if the performance is the person?
This piece reflects the quiet terror of identity erosion—the dread that beneath the jokes, the aesthetics, the manic charm, and the polished poetry… there may be nothing solid to hold onto.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 