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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: emotional growth

  • Coordinates of Escape – A Poem About Introspection, Leaving, and Finding Direction

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece sits at the intersection of introspection and escape.

    Writing has always been where I process things–where thoughts loop, where patterns reveal themselves, where I can be honest in ways that don’t always come out loud.

    But there’s also a point where reflection turns into restlessness.

    Where you stop asking why you feel this way and start asking where do I go from here?

    The coordinates in this piece are real.

    Not just as a location–but as intention.

    A direction.
    A choice.

    Because sometimes the only way to break the loop
    is to move.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person overlooking a city skyline at night with faint geographic coordinates in the sky, symbolizing introspection and escape.
    Sometimes the way forward isn’t a thought—it’s a direction.

    Coordinates of Escape
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m in my head,
    all the time—
    introspective
    when I rhyme.

    I’m honest,
    turn the page
    into a confessional.

    The page listens
    when I speak in ink—
    poetry captures the dance
    at the brink,
    as thoughts loop—
    the thoughts loops,
    repeating what I think.

    It makes me feel weak—
    the way my thoughts
    get under my own skin.
    Why am I so fixated on the end,
    when really I want to restart—
    reset, begin again…

    Two feet on distant shores,
    eyes focused—looking forward,
    toward the future—
    with my back to the past.

    I’ll touchdown—
    121 degrees East
    of the Prime Meridian,
    14 degrees and 36 minutes
    North of the Equator.

    If you know where that is,
    you’ll know where to find me.

    It’s goodbye,
    no see you later.

    Journey into the Hexverse!

    [The Voice in the Haze]
    A wandering dream, a voice that feels like memory, and a moment where everything quiets just enough to be found.

    [Right Behind My Eyes]
    A raw and introspective poem exploring dissociation, emotional distance, and the grounding power of love. Right Behind My Eyes captures the feeling of watching your life from afar—and what keeps you from disappearing completely.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Lantern in the Room – A Poem About Trauma, Love, and Inner Darkness

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece wasn’t planned.

    It came out in one sitting–somewhere between thought and feeling, where things don’t always organize themselves neatly. It’s messy in the way real reflection tends to be.

    There’s a version of me that still exists in that room. The one surrounded by noise, by doubt, by everything that hasn’t fully let go yet.

    And for a long time, I thought the goal was to get out of that room entirely.

    To silence it. To leave it behind.

    But that’s not what happened.

    Instead, I learned how to sit in it differently.

    To see the shadows for what they are–not threats, but remnants. Not something to fear, but something to understand.

    And somewhere along the way, I realized something else–

    that I wasn’t alone in that space anymore.

    This piece is about that shift.

    Not from the darkness to light…
    but from fear to awareness.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person holding a glowing lantern in a dark empty room surrounded by shadowy figures, symbolizing inner demons and self-reflection.
    Even in the darkest rooms, a single light is enough to face what once felt impossible.

    Lantern in the Room
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I sit in an empty room—
    but I’m not alone here.

    It’s me, myself
    and the demons I hide.

    Remnants
    of a shattered mind,

    scattered across
    endless timelines.

    A life of possibility,
    held back by humility—
    and a lack of confidence.

    I don’t know
    how to take a compliment.

    What makes it worse is—
    I know my worth…
    but I question
    how anyone else could.

    I don’t let them
    get close enough to know.

    I get just close enough—
    close enough to know it’s real.

    Then I pull back—
    because I’m scared to feel.

    I’ve been hurt before.

    And that hurt—
    it festered,
    turned to rot.

    It spread
    inside my chest,
    until there was nothing left—

    just fear and doubt.

    In my head,
    they shout.

    I just wanted them out.

    And then—

    her.

    Her,
    with the voice
    that cuts through
    the fog.

    Her,
    with the eyes
    that light up the night—
    they brighten my life.

    Her…
    it’s always been her.

    Since the moment
    she appeared.
    It felt like—
    addiction.

    I couldn’t get enough.

    And I ask myself—
    is this love?

    I used to think
    I knew what that was.

    Now every thought
    revolves around her.

    Even when I drift,
    the thought of her
    brings me back to center.

    She’s the tether—
    a lighthouse
    in stormy weather.

    Just by existing,
    she makes me better.

    She didn’t save me.
    She didn’t fix me—

    she changed my perspective.

    That’s it.

    Now—
    I can’t picture
    what life was like before.

    It feels distant.

    Like a version of history
    that didn’t happen to me.

    But it did.

    That’s where my scars
    come from.

    It’s where the demons
    were born.

    The voices that whisper—
    the thoughts that scream—

    is this a nightmare
    or a dream?

    Because I’m still terrified.
    I’d be lying if I said otherwise.

    So I return to the room—
    lantern in hand.

    The shadows don’t scare me anymore.

    They’re just part
    of the narrative now.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Lingering, Not Lost – A Poem About Mental Retreat and Choosing to Stay

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve learned that when I care deeply, I sometimes pull back instead of leaning in. This piece is me noticing that reflex in real time – and choosing not to let it define me.

    Lingering isn’t the same as being lost. And retreating isn’t the same as running.

    — Rowan Evans

    Silhouette of a person standing at the edge of a quiet shoreline at dusk, symbolizing reflection and emotional retreat.
    Not lost. Just lingering — and choosing to return.

    Lingering, Not Lost (Mental Retreat)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I retreat—
    when my mind
    gets messy.
    I repeat—
    thoughts on loop,
    spinning, hula-hoop.

    Saying I’m fine,
    when I know I’m not—
    I slip deeper
    into my thoughts.
    I sit in the dark
    inside my mind,
    not even trying
    to find
    a way out.

    I’m not trapped,
    I’m lingering.
    Haunting
    my own mind.
    Fighting
    my own misconceptions.
    Twisting secrets
    into confessions.

    Every thought—
    You.
    Who keeps me
    tethered,
    gripping reality tight
    so I don’t slip
    and lose my mind
    tonight?
    You.

    And it’s nothing you do.
    It’s just you, being you.

    So this descent
    is never permanent,
    but it leaves cracks—
    I know it does.

    Damage that can’t be undone—
    Only repaired
    slowly,
    with patience.
    With care.
    With staying.

    So I’ll try—
    I’ll try and pull myself free
    from this mental retreat.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Tattooed Pages – A Poem About Hidden Love, Writing as Therapy & Learning to Say It Plain

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is about writing as both armor and confession.

    For a long time, I’ve hidden what I feel inside metaphors, inside rhythm, inside lines that only certain people would recognize. Some secrets are meant for the page. Some are meant for one person.

    Every poem that sounds like longing isn’t accidental. It’s practice.

    Practice saying something plainly.

    — Rowan Evans

    Open notebook with handwritten poetry under warm desk lamp lighting.

    Tattooed Pages
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Every time I sit
    with eyes locked
    on a blank page—
    I feel like
    I’m in therapy again.

    And how does
    that make you feel?

    I don’t know,
    I get a little sad sometimes.
    Depression festers
    inside the thoughts
    in my mind,
    anxiety lingers
    twisting shadowed
    fingers around my spine.

    So I write—
    Pouring thoughts
    like shots; fragments,
    shattered glass
    scattered like my mind
    gets sometimes.

    So I write—
    ink across the page,
    like ink across the skin.
    Tattooed pages,
    holding whispered secrets
    and trembling confessions—
    sharing hard learned lessons.

    I write to share
    what you mean to me.
    But I never say your name
    in what I let them see.
    Instead, I hide the signs
    inside the lines—
    secrets hidden in plain sight.

    I’ve written conversations
    between us—
    real or made up,
    for them to guess
    and us to know.
    I write to show
    how much I—
    let you linger
    in my thoughts.

    You mean so much to me,
    and I just want you to know.
    But I’m afraid to say
    too much, so I let it slip
    in subtle secrets.
    Bit by bit, information drips—
    I love your voice,
    and the way you say my name.
    Having you in my life
    is worth more than fame.

    Your attitude?
    It’s perfection.
    Anyone complaining
    just has a skill issue.

    (…they’re a little bitch.)

    Maybe one day
    I’ll stop hiding
    behind metaphors
    and coded lines.

    But until then—
    know that every poem
    that sounds like longing
    is me
    learning how to say it plain.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

  • Distant Shores | A Poem About Longing, Growth, and Becoming

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem came from a recurring dream and a familiar pull — the quiet urge to move toward something that feels meaningful, even if the destination isn’t fully defined yet. It isn’t about a place so much as the feeling of possibility, of momentum returning, of wanting to grow into someone worthy of the journey ahead.

    Some shores are literal.
    Some are emotional.
    Some only exist because someone made you believe they might.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure standing on a quiet shoreline at dawn, looking out toward distant waves and a glowing horizon.
    Some journeys begin long before you ever leave—when the shore starts calling you back to yourself.

    Distant Shores
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s kind of wild how,
    you’ve been in my dreams
    for a while now.

    You’re always radiant as ever,
    you look like heaven—but better.
    You inspire every poem, word and letter,
    I write them with love, respect and care.
    If I could, I would always be there—

    I swear
    I will cross oceans,
    whether I catch a jet,
    swim or stowaway.
    I swear
    I will cross these waves,
    and we will walk the same shore
    some day.
    I swear—

    You make me, want to be
    a better me.
    To strive for more,
    instead of giving up
    like I had before.
    I had allowed myself
    to become trapped,
    inside the borders
    of my mind and
    country.

    You added fuel to a fire
    that had been silently burning.
    Right there, inside my chest.
    The embers smoldered in silence,
    until you, and the fire reignited—
    and now it roars.

    Once again, I dream of walking
    distant shores. But now…
    Now, I want them to be…

    Yours.

    If you’re interested in more poetry, you can find it here → [The Library of Ashes]

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Toward Somewhere I Can Breathe]
    A poem about feeling disconnected since fourteen, longing for somewhere that feels like home, and finally understanding that the journey isn’t about escape — it’s about alignment.

    [Disconnected Since Fourteen]
    A confessional poem about growing up disconnected—from place, from home, from belonging—and the quiet realization that the signal was never stable to begin with.

    [Still Tilting Elsewhere]
    A reflection on growing up with a compass that never pointed home—tracing the quiet rebellion of longing, the patience of dreams, and the feeling of always being angled toward somewhere else.