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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: emotional honesty

  • When Survival Gets Quiet – A Poem About Healing, Pain, and Being Seen

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece came from a place of uncomfortable clarity — the kind that only arrives after you’ve survived enough storms to notice the patterns in the people around you. There’s a strange truth I’ve learned over the years: some people loved me louder when I was breaking than when I was healing. Pain made me poetic, easy to praise, easy to place on a pedestal of tragedy. But healing? Healing is quieter, steadier, less romantic. And somehow, to some people, that made it less worthy of attention.

    I didn’t write this to shame anyone. I wrote it because it’s real — because recovery deserves reverence too, because resilience isn’t any less beautiful than collapse, and because we don’t talk enough about how lonely healing can be.

    This piece is for anyone who’s ever felt more valuable broken than whole. For anyone rebuilding themselves without applause. For anyone learning to exist without having to bleed for validation.

    You are still art.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure in a dim, gothic museum surrounded by cracked statues, symbolizing healing after emotional collapse.
    Even survival can feel quiet in a world that only learned to listen to the sound of breaking.

    When Survival Gets Quiet
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s always been strange to me
    how people praised me louder
    when I was dying inside
    than when I wasn’t.

    And I don’t say this
    to make anyone feel shame—
    it’s just something I’ve noticed
    over time.
    Over a lot of motherfuckin’ time.

    I can think back
    to so many moments
    where I was ready to check out.
    Where the smallest thing
    felt like the final straw.

    And I don’t say that
    to minimize, or erase,
    or make light of the weight
    those moments carried.

    They held me like a museum tragedy—
    a relic of ruin,
    a beautiful collapse.

    But when I finally learned to breathe again,
    their applause softened,
    like my healing made the art
    less valuable.

    Maybe it’s easier to love me
    when I’m bleeding metaphors
    than when I’m quietly rebuilding.

    Maybe survival is too quiet
    for people who only learned
    to listen to the sound
    of breaking.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.

  • 22 Confessions: Raw & Intimate Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    One confession for every year I have been writing.
    Some truths are small.
    Some are unbearable.
    All are mine.

    Handwritten letters on a dimly lit desk with a pen and shadowy figure, evoking introspection and confessional poetry.
    22 Confessions: One poem for every year, revealing truths both small and unbearable.

    22 Confessions
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I.
    i have told someone
    i loved them,
    when i didn’t mean it—
    just to see if i could.

    II.
    i stare at my reflection
    too long.
    still—
    i don’t see what others do.

    III.
    i’ve held grudges
    longer—
    than i’ve held hands.

    IV.
    i crave chaos in silence,
    as if noise
    could make me
    alive.

    V.
    i have written letters
    i will never send.
    they carry my soul.
    anyway.

    VI.
    i envy people who forget.
    i remember
    everything.

    VII.
    i love someone
    so deeply,
    it hurts—
    to breathe around them.

    and still—
    they are never mine.

    VIII.
    i sometimes wish
    i could be unremarkable
    just for a day.

    IX.
    i judge myself
    harder than anyone else
    ever could.

    X.
    i laugh at the wrong moments
    to hide the right ones.

    XI.
    i hold people to impossible standards,
    and silently blame myself
    when they fail.

    XII.
    i have hurt the innocent
    to protect myself.
    i called it survival.
    it was selfishness.

    XIII.
    i crave being seen—
    but panic when i am.

    XIV.
    i have whispered secrets
    to strangers
    i would never share
    with friends.

    XV.
    i write confessions
    i pray nobody reads.

    XVI.
    i have loved my own pain
    more than i have loved—
    anyone else.

    XVII.
    i sometimes pretend
    to be stronger
    than i feel.

    XVIII.
    i am afraid of being ordinary.
    extraordinary terrifies me too.

    XIX.
    i have loved
    the idea of people
    more than the people themselves.

    XX.
    i keep parts of myself
    in boxes
    even i cannot open.

    XXI.
    i crave connection—
    but it terrifies me—
    every single time.

    XXII.
    i am still learning
    how to forgive myself.
    before it is too late.

    Closing question:

    I’ve confessed 22 truths. Which one would you admit aloud?

    To read more of my work, check out the archives: [The Library of Ashes]

  • Tip the Chair: A Neo-Gothic Confessional Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ Content & Care Advisory ✦

    These words dwell in shadows of grief, loss, and the ache of unseen burdens. They speak of sorrow, despair, and the fragile pulse of the human heart. Read only if you feel steady, and remember—your safety, your breath, your life are sacred. You are not alone in the dark.

    ✦ Invocation ✦

    Before the breath stills, 
    these words hang in the hush — 
    not to beg for saving, 
    but to name what was lost 
    and what was never held.

    Gothic chapel interior with candlelight, an empty tilted chair, scattered rose petals, and curling smoke symbolizing mourning and poetic invocation.
    “Tip the Chair” by Rowan Evans — A Neo-Gothic Confessional poem invoking grief, memory, and mercy in the shadows between loss and light.

    Tip the Chair
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Noose tied, tears dried— 
    I’m so fucking tired. 
    Voice silent, prayers unsaid, 
    it was you I was wanting, 
    because you keep the ghosts at bay. 
     
    Tip the chair, I’m hanging there— 
    oh, the thoughts of you, 
    flashing through— 
    memories sharp as shattered glass, 
    cuts I carry into the dark. 
     
    My mind it races, 
    heartbeat slows, 
    lungs burning for a mercy 
    that never shows— 
     
    and in that last hush, 
    I see nothing but 
    smiling faces— 
    yours among them, 
    unburdened, 
    untouched by this ache 
    that broke me. 
     
    And don’t take this 
    for bitterness— 
    I’m glad you’re happy, 
    truly, I am…

    ✦ Benediction ✦

    May your nights be softer than mine.
    May the ghosts that stayed for me pass you by in mercy.
    And if these words remain—
    let them weigh less than the silence that birthed them.

    🕯️ If you’re struggling, please read this:

    You matter. Your pain is real. Your story is not over.
    Here are some resources—because your flame is worth protecting:

    🇺🇲 United States

    988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Call or text 988
    https://988lifeline.org
    Free, 24/7 support for emotional distress and mental health crises.

    Crisis Text Line – Text HOME to 741741
    https://www.crisistextline.org

    —

    🇬🇧 United Kingdom

    Samaritans – Call 116 123 (free, 24/7)
    https://www.samaritans.org

    —

    🇦🇺 Australia

    Lifeline Australia – Call 13 11 14
    https://www.lifeline.org.au

    Kids Helpline (ages 5–25) – Call 1800 55 1800
    https://www.kidshelpline.com.au

    —

    🇨🇦 Canada

    Talk Suicide Canada – Call 1-833-456-4566 or text 45645
    https://talksuicide.ca

    —

    🇵🇭 Philippines

    Hopeline Philippines
    Call: 0917 558 4673, (02) 8804 4673, or 2919 (toll-free for Globe & TM)
    https://www.hopelineph.com

    —

    🌍 Global

    Befrienders Worldwide – Emotional support in 30+ countries
    https://www.befrienders.org

    Suicide Prevention Wiki (International Hotline Directory)
    https://suicidestop.com/call_a_hotline.html

  • Splinter Gospel – A Poem of Fracture & Unrepentant Softness

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ Author’s Note ✦

    This piece was born from exhaustion, from the bone-deep ache of being the keeper of others’ ruins while my own remain untouched.
    It isn’t a prayer for rescue—it’s a confession that even when we splinter, we still speak, still love, still remain.
    Thank you for reading my broken gospel.

    ✦ Content & Care Advisory ✦

    These words dwell in shadows of grief, loss, and the ache of unseen burdens. They speak of sorrow, despair, and the fragile pulse of the human heart. Read only if you feel steady, and remember—your safety, your breath, your life are sacred. You are not alone in the dark.

    Cracked porcelain angel in candlelight, symbolizing brokenness and tenderness.
    A gospel written in the language of fracture.

    ✦ Invocation ✦

    Before you read, know this was never meant to save me.
    These words were built from splinters,
    stitched together by loneliness and the quiet ache of being unseen.
    If they cut, let them cut honest—
    for this gospel was written in the language of fracture.

    Splinter Gospel
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    This depression
    is pressin’
    down on my lungs.
    And I can’t breathe.

    I gasp and gasp,
    trying to grasp
    any reason to stay alive—
    when I just want to die.

    I’m never enough.
    Always too much.
    My life is a constant
    fucking contradiction,
    a paradox—

    I am always the shoulder,
    never the lover—
    always the one who stays,
    but easily replaced.

    I am the prayer they whisper
    when loneliness gnaws,
    but never the answer
    they keep when dawn comes.

    I am always the fixer,
    the one who pieces them back together—
    only to be left in the dust.
    An afterthought.

    I hold their ruins,
    but no one holds mine.
    A vessel for everyone’s ache—
    but never a name they choose to keep.

    Even knowing that—
    I stick around.
    It’s emotional masochism,
    I crave the ache, so I—

    I stay until I splinter,
    then watch them leave,
    carrying only the softness
    I begged them to see.

    ✦ Benediction ✦

    May your cracks speak louder than your silence.
    May your softness outlive those who failed to hold it.
    And if your gospel must splinter—
    let it still be yours, and yours alone.

    ✦ Read Next (Suggestions) ✦

    [Cry to the Quiet] — Sacred Desperation
    [Luminescence & Shadow] — A Forbidden Litany
    [A-Woman] — Confession at the Altar of Her
    [Reliquary of Broken Sons] — A Vignette of the Broken Saint & Clown Prince

    Or explore the full archive in [The Library of Ashes]—and if your own confession aches to be written, [commission a custom poem here]. NGCR25 at checkout to get 25% off your ‘request’…