Rain has a strange way of making the world feel quieter.
Sometimes that quiet gives the mind room to speak.
And sometimes the mind doesn’t whisper.
Louder Than the Rain is a small piece about one of those moments—when everything outside is making noise, yet somehow the loudest thing in the room is what’s happening inside your own head.
So listen closely.
— Rowan Evans
When the world gets quiet, sometimes the thoughts get louder.
Louder Than the Rain Poetry by Rowan Evans
I sat listening to the rainfall,
watching it hit and splash upon the ground—
the way my tears fell,
I was surrounded, but it felt like nobody was around.
I was alone in a packed house—
why was the silence so fucking…
my thoughts were loud,
they were drowning my thoughts out.
I was so damn nervous,
hands in my hair, I was pulling it—
just wanted to scream and shout,
it was the only way to get my feelings out.
But I couldn’t shout loud, so I rode it out—
translated the pain to the page.
Yeah, I wrote it out…
Journey into the Hexverse
[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.
[Nobody² (No Body)] A minimalist poem playing with the double meaning of “nobody”—exploring loneliness, isolation, absence, and the feeling of becoming a ghost within your own life.
[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.
Sometimes the nightmare is waking up and realizing that the person you want beside you is standing beneath a completely different sky.
My Nightmare comes from that place—the uneasy space between memory and hope, between what once felt shared and what now feels impossibly far away. It is a poem about distance, but not only the physical kind. There is distance between perspectives, between hearts, between the lives we imagine and the lives we are actually living.
Still, even nightmares have endings.
Sometimes you wake up before they become permanent.
And sometimes, even while dreaming, you can still see a little gold threaded through the cracks.
— Rowan Evans
Two shores. Two skies. One horizon—and enough gold left to believe they might meet there.
My Nightmare Poetry by Rowan Evans
This is my nightmare.
You and I across the distance,
the view that we see is different—
your moon from my sky
is missing—
the sun no longer shines,
it’s dimming—
I don’t see the spark anymore—
don’t see the light in the dark anymore.
What do I even I write for?
I lost my purpose—think I did it on purpose,
it’s like I can’t rhyme anymore,
no clock, no watch, can’t tell time anymore.
This is my nightmare.
You and I across the distance,
the view that we see is different—
my moon is sickly pale,
but yours seems fine though—
the sun doesn’t provide light,
it’s gotten real low—
in times before, this is when
I would Kintsugi the heart—
but there’s not much heart left,
it’s all gold—soft metal,
softer soul—stayed warm,
when the world grew cold.
This is my nightmare.
You and I across the distance,
the view that we see is different—
when we used to be,
two pieces the puzzle
was missing—
the sun in the sky was fine,
but it dimmed in our shine—
I’ve spent time doing Kintsugi
on your heart too—it was hard not to,
gold and platinum weaved through—
I really did see you, flaws and all—
and all I saw was a gift from God.
I still don’t think—
I was wrong.
But that was my nightmare…
You and I across the distance,
the view that we saw was different—
but I still see the gold threads that connect,
the platinum hope on the horizon,
that one day the distance will close—
and we’ll walk the same shore,
it won’t be—
mine and yours.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Dreaming Wrong] A familiar dream becomes unsettling when the ocean becomes a pond, the tide disappears, the moon loses its reflection, and nothing feels quite like it belongs. Dreaming Wrong explores the uncanny feeling of finding yourself inside a dream that looks familiar—but feels like someone else’s.
[Poet’s Curse] Poet’s Curse explores the painful side of falling too deeply: giving pieces of yourself away freely, taking accountability for your own heartbreak, and realizing that learning to let go can be harder than learning to love.
[Beach to Beach] A dream becomes a journey between familiar shores and unfamiliar cities in Beach to Beach (How I Get There), a poem about imagined travel, ocean crossings, longing, and the places we hope to someday reach while awake.
[Where the Metaphors Lead] Some truths are easier to write than they are to say aloud. “Where the Metaphors Lead” explores the quiet space between dreams, confession, and the courage it takes to let another person know how deeply they’ve become woven into your inner world.
Sometimes an old poem doesn’t need to be left in the past.
Sometimes you have to return to it after you’ve changed.
Fallen Angel’s Reckoning (Remix) revisits a poem I originally wrote on June 6, 2024. The original was already telling a story I understood well: love that promised forever, a fall from an imagined heaven, and the painful process of reclaiming yourself after the promise disappears.
But I was a different writer when I wrote it.
And, more importantly, I was a different person.
The 2026 version isn’t meant to erase the original. It is a conversation with it.
I kept the central imagery—the angel, Lucifer, the fall from heaven, the halo, the darkness, the broken vow—because those symbols still belong to the emotional architecture of the piece. But I wanted to push the mythology further this time. Icarus enters the story. The fall becomes more physical, more violent, more deliberate. The speaker isn’t simply descending from something that once felt like heaven; they are plummeting from it.
And then there is the ending.
In 2024, I wrote about newfound wings.
In 2026, I wrote about broken wings.
That change matters to me.
Because strength doesn’t always mean becoming untouched by what happened. Sometimes you keep the scars. Sometimes you keep the broken pieces. Sometimes you discover that you can still fly without first repairing everything that hurt you.
The angel doesn’t become an angel again.
They don’t return to the heaven they lost.
They don’t need the person who made them feel divine to give them their identity back.
They become something else.
A fallen angel who embraces the fallen.
The broken.
The free.
That is what this remix ultimately became: not a poem about getting back what was lost, but about discovering that losing it didn’t mean losing yourself.
I didn’t rewrite the 2024 version because it was wrong.
I rewrote it because I’ve had two more years to understand the fall.
And sometimes the person who wrote the first poem deserves to hear what the person you became has learned since then.
— Rowan Evans
I don’t need unbroken wings to fly. I just need to remember that they were mine before anyone promised me heaven.
Fallen Angel’s Reckoning (Remix) Poetry by Rowan Evans [written July 23th, 2026]
I remember when you said forever,
but forever never came,
so I fell like Lucifer,
from the heavens down I tumbled.
Returned your love,
played your game—
once an angel in your eyes,
now in darkness I crumbled.
Your promises were wings that lifted me high,
but they melted away, when I reached the sun—
just like Icarus, the light was my undoing.
It wasn’t just a fall, I was plummeting…
a fallen star,
cast from the sky,
now I walk in shadows,
where our love met its end.
Like Lucifer—I embraced the night,
wandering through realms of regret and pain,
I shed my halo,
lost my light,
no longer an angel,
in your eyes or in my name.
Yet in this darkness,
a new path unfurls—
I find strength in the ashes of our broken vow,
rising from the ruins of our shattered world.
I reclaim my soul,
I’m reborn here and now.
No longer bound by your empty decree—
I soar with broken wings,
embracing the fallen,
the broken, the free,
a fallen angel finding strength
I never knew I’d own.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Homecoming] Homecoming is a return to the Gothic aesthetic at the heart of Rowan Evans’s poetry, blending Poe, mythology, horror icons, moonlight, ravens, and darkness into a meditation on artistic identity and finding your way back to the voice that feels like home.
[The Monster in the Margins] Drawing inspiration from horror icons like Michael Myers, Ghostface, Freddy Krueger, and Pennywise, this poem explores the darker side of creativity—where inspiration becomes an unstoppable force lurking just beyond the edge of the page.
[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 Unkindness Descends] “The Unkindness Descends” is a Gothic symbolic poem exploring collapse, transformation, and the unsettling experience of being witnessed during moments of unraveling. Through raven imagery, ambiguity, and ritualistic atmosphere, the poem invites multiple interpretations—spiritual, psychological, ominous, or transformative.
[Gospel in Crimson] When writing becomes ritual and love becomes devotion, the line between creation and worship begins to blur. Gospel in Crimson explores obsession, artistry, and the sacred act of expression.
Love Addict (High on Love) is me taking one of my recurring themes—how intensely I experience love—and pushing the metaphor until it becomes impossible to ignore.
I’ve often written about love as something intoxicating. A rush. A chemical reaction. Something that can make the world feel brighter and the mind move faster. But this poem asks what happens when that metaphor is taken literally enough to become uncomfortable.
Because sometimes I don’t simply want love.
I crave it.
There is a difference.
The language of addiction works here because love can create its own strange cycle: anticipation, euphoria, uncertainty, withdrawal, craving, and the desperate desire for another hit of the feeling that made everything seem worthwhile.
And, naturally, my response to that craving is to write.
That’s one of the things I find fascinating about my relationship with poetry. I don’t merely write about what I’m feeling—I often metabolize the feeling through language. I take the emotion, push it through rhythm and metaphor, turn it over until I can see its shape, and then put it on the page.
So the final joke is also the truth.
I get high on love.
Then I get high on writing about getting high on love.
And apparently, the cycle continues.
Maybe that’s the real habit.
— Rowan Evans
Some people chase love. I apparently write it until the high wears off—and then write another poem.
Love Addict (High on Love) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I get high on love
like it’s a drug
and I’m an addict
with a habit,
fighting for every hit
that I can get—
if I could,
I would OD on it.
Inject it straight
to my chest,
in-between the ribs—
where the heart lives.
I’d take the risk,
the comedown, the crash,
just to feel one moment
where love doesn’t pass.
I get the shakes and quake,
knot in the stomach—cold sweats,
when love doesn’t sit in the chest—
it feels fake, not worth the weight.
Wait—
what was I saying?
I get high on love
like it’s a drug
and I’m an addict,
so I write lines
that expand the mind,
to feed the habit.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Poet’s Curse] Poet’s Curse explores the painful side of falling too deeply: giving pieces of yourself away freely, taking accountability for your own heartbreak, and realizing that learning to let go can be harder than learning to love.
[When I Fall] When I Fall is a vulnerable poem about loving without reservation, feeling everything deeply, and refusing to make the heart smaller just because wholehearted love can sometimes lead to loneliness and pain.
There is a particular kind of heartbreak that doesn’t have a villain.
Sometimes nobody betrayed you.
Nobody lied.
Nobody promised you something they couldn’t give.
Sometimes someone simply exists, speaks to you, makes you feel something—and your heart decides to build an entire mythology around it.
That is where Poet’s Curse came from.
I’ve joked before about having a poet’s curse: the tendency to fall into feelings quickly, to hear a little beauty in someone’s voice and suddenly find myself wading into the waves after it. But beneath the joke is something I’ve had to become more honest about.
Sometimes my heartbreak is partly mine.
Not because I was wrong to feel what I felt, but because I have a habit of giving pieces of myself away before I’ve figured out whether there is somewhere safe for them to land.
The person in this poem didn’t necessarily do anything wrong. She didn’t promise me forever. She didn’t lead me somewhere just to abandon me. She talked—and I listened. I heard a siren’s song, and I chose to wade into the water.
So this isn’t a poem about blaming her.
It’s about looking at myself afterward and admitting something uncomfortable:
I learned how to hold on long before I learned how to let go.
And maybe that’s the real curse.
Not that I love too deeply.
Not that I feel too much.
But that once I give someone a piece of my heart, I don’t always know how to take my hands away from the fire.
Sometimes the only way forward is to stop calling that weakness a curse and start learning the skill I never had—
how to let go without becoming less capable of love.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the hardest thing to learn isn’t how to love—it’s how to let go of what you’ve already given away.
Poet’s Curse Poetry by Rowan Evans
Here we go again
it’s another season of sin,
the poet’s back
heartbroken with a pen.
Yeah, went and fuckin’
did it again—
it’s my fault
my heart is cracked,
with pieces missing.
You see, I give them away
too freely, it’s such a pain
to be me, I get hooked
too easily—
she did nothing wrong,
she didn’t lead me on, just talked
and I heard a siren’s song—
I waded into the waves,
prayed for things to change.
Pardon the moment of slowness,
give me a moment while I own this
and take accountability for my part
in breaking my heart.
It’s a poet’s curse—
I only learned how to hold on.
I never learned how to let go,
my feelings and emotion
like hot coals in my hands.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[When I Fall] When I Fall is a vulnerable poem about loving without reservation, feeling everything deeply, and refusing to make the heart smaller just because wholehearted love can sometimes lead to loneliness and pain.
When I Fall is about the way I experience love when I stop trying to make it smaller.
I have never been particularly good at feeling things halfway. When something reaches my heart, it tends to go deeper than the surface—into the marrow, into the places where emotion becomes difficult to separate from identity. That intensity can be beautiful, but it can also hurt when the love I give doesn’t find its way back to me.
The easy response would be to close myself off.
To dim the light.
To protect myself by pretending I don’t feel as deeply as I do.
But I don’t want to do that.
There is something important about refusing to treat your capacity for love as a flaw simply because someone else couldn’t—or wouldn’t—meet you there. Sometimes loving wholeheartedly means accepting that you may get hurt. Sometimes being honest about what you feel means sitting with the loneliness afterward.
That doesn’t mean the answer is to become colder.
I would rather keep my heart open.
I would rather love the way I love—whole, honest, and unhidden—than spend my life making myself smaller just to avoid the possibility of pain.
Maybe falling hard isn’t the problem.
Maybe the real courage is choosing to keep getting back up without becoming afraid of the fall.
— Rowan Evans
I would rather love wholeheartedly than make my heart smaller just to make the fall hurt less.
When I Fall Poetry by Rowan
When I fall, I fall hard.
I feel it all or nothing—
when it comes to matters of the heart.
There is no middle ground,
no in-between—
it’s all or nothing for me.
I send out love,
and no one returns with it.
so I sit alone—
it’s the same as always,
I’m used to it.
I wear my heart on my sleeve,
exposed to the elements.
That means I feel things deeply,
nothing is surface level—
everything is marrow deep.
So I pour myself in crimson ink
across a porcelain page—
the only place
that I can put this pain.
Still, I don’t close myself.
I don’t dim the light.
I don’t pretend my heart is smaller
than it is.
I love the way I love—
whole, honest, unhidden—
even if it leaves me alone sometimes.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Where the Metaphors Lead] Some truths are easier to write than they are to say aloud. “Where the Metaphors Lead” explores the quiet space between dreams, confession, and the courage it takes to let another person know how deeply they’ve become woven into your inner world.
[Beach to Beach (How I Get There)] A dream becomes a journey between familiar shores and unfamiliar cities in Beach to Beach (How I Get There), a poem about imagined travel, ocean crossings, longing, and the places we hope to someday reach while awake.
[The World Shifted Around Us] The world transformed around us—beach, city streets, jungle—but we never moved. Sometimes love isn’t found in words, but in the quiet certainty of someone remaining clear while everything else fades.
[I’d Rather Try] Anyone can promise they’d die for someone. But love isn’t built on one dramatic moment—it’s built on showing up, trying again tomorrow, and proving your words through consistent action.
Some poems feel less like they’re written and more like they’re discovered.
A Rose in the Ashes came from following an image rather than an outline. One symbol led to another until the poem became a journey through memory itself—through forgotten moments, lingering wounds, recurring dreams, and the quiet realization that healing doesn’t happen by avoiding the past.
The forest in this poem isn’t meant to be a literal place. It’s the landscape of memory, where some experiences remain vivid while others decay with time. The trees, the tunnel, the moon, the bay, and finally the rose all became landmarks within that emotional terrain.
The final image—a single rose blooming through ashes—reminded me that even after devastation, beauty doesn’t disappear forever. Sometimes it simply waits beneath the surface until we’re ready to notice it.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes healing doesn’t appear as a blazing light at the end of the tunnel.
Sometimes it’s a single rose, quietly blooming where you thought only ashes remained.
A Rose in the Ashes Poetry by Rowan Evans
I wander through the mist and fog,
wondering if I’ve gotten myself lost.
The trees are thick with sickly green leaves,
and the air is too thick, it’s hard to breathe.
Every step feels borrowed,
like the ground isn’t sure
it wants to hold me.
It’s like with every step
the ground shifts a little to the left,
until nothing feels right.
It’s like I’ve walked
to the end of the tunnel,
but I didn’t find the light.
I keep walking, stumbling along—
the dark swallows me whole
and then spits me out.
I hit the ground and roll to a stop
on the edge of a fifty foot drop.
That’s when I see it,
something moving between the trees—
not a creature,
but a feeling—
the sense that I’m being asked
to keep going
even when I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s because
I didn’t find the light
at the end of the tunnel,
not because I failed—
but because the journey isn’t done.
The light signifies the end.
No light means the journey continues,
so I keep moving through—
the streets that I walk in sleep,
the moment I return to my bones,
or a war with gods to ease the pain.
Yeah, I followed the footprints
to the water’s edge,
I stared across at the coast
on the other side of silence.
And even from a distance,
I was able to trace
the moon across the heavens,
before it became suspended over the bay—
its reflection trembling across the dark water,
a mirror to the tremor in my chest.
But I couldn’t stay still for long—
I had to keep moving on.
So I ran—
bolted for the tree line,
tripped and stumbled in
and my eyes caught the way the light
pierced the canopy—
the light—
that’s what I’d been chasing
this whole time,
not at the end of the tunnel—
but above my head,
an idea—
my eyes drift toward the sky,
and that’s when I see—
the leaves on these trees
are not leaves,
they are memories—
some bright and vivid,
others a sickly shade of green.
Those are memories forgot,
memories left to rot.
But here’s the truth of this plot:
some memories fade—
whether you hold on or not,
and some become rooted
through pain, an environment
permanently changed.
And that’s what I saw…
trees with leaves
showing things—
I thought long forgotten.
I was more surprised by that,
than the fact that so many trees
looked rotten.
I could feel the tears
touch the corners of my eyes—
the air was thick again,
humid and suffocating.
There was a tremor in my chest,
and knees were weak—
with every step my bones were quaking,
like the earth was shaking.
I stumbled and fell to my knees,
head bowed—
in shame or respect,
who knows, now?
I opened my mouth,
but no jokes came out—
I couldn’t misdirect from this,
no sleight of hand.
I had to face this—
whatever it is,
whatever these leaves
show me,
I’ve got to take it seriously—
because maybe it is these memories
that are keeping me stuck here.
Maybe they are the memories
that drive the fear,
that keeps me from acting—
that keeps me dragging feet
and self-sabotaging.
Slowly I rise—
like the sun over the horizon.
Knees shaking from the weight of me,
I struggle to take one step
and then another.
I stumble through the ruins
of thoughts, dreams and memories—
my chest rises and falls,
like oxygen is in short supply.
Then I see it—
a single rose in bloom,
poking through the ashes
of nights only remembered
in the spilled ink on silent pages.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[One Honest Sentence] It’s easy to write about anything. What’s difficult is writing one completely honest sentence without hiding behind humor, references, or metaphor. One Honest Sentence explores the distance between poetic confidence and emotional vulnerability.
[Leave No Self Behind] What if finding yourself isn’t about discovering someone new, but learning to walk beside every version you’ve ever been? “Leave No Self Behind” is a meditation on memory, healing, and embracing the selves we once abandoned.
[More Afraid Than the Ink] Some confessions are easy to write but impossible to speak. More Afraid Than the Ink explores fear, dreams, recurring symbols, and the quiet realization that the page has always been braver than the poet.
[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.
[Translating What I Feel] A poem about the invisible process of turning emotion into imagery, imagery into language, and language into poetry. An intimate reflection on creativity, loneliness, and twenty-three years of learning to translate what the heart feels.
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.
This poem began with frustration, but it didn’t stay there.
Sometimes it’s easy to blame circumstances for feeling stuck, especially when life starts to feel like the same day repeating itself. While writing this piece, I realized something uncomfortable: the biggest obstacle in front of me wasn’t where I lived or what I lacked—it was my own hesitation.
That realization isn’t meant as self-punishment. It’s an invitation to look honestly at fear. Growth often means stepping into uncertainty, and that’s rarely comfortable. The “storm” in this poem isn’t destruction—it’s transformation waiting to happen.
Sometimes the hardest person to convince to move forward is yourself.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the storm isn’t waiting on the horizon.
Sometimes it’s waiting inside us—asking us to finally move.
Maybe the Storm Is Me Poetry by Rowan Evans
Every day I pray for change,
and every day is just the same.
I go to bed in America,
wake up in America—
but that’s my fault I guess,
I haven’t pushed myself enough.
So really,
it’s my fault I’m stuck.
Damn—
that sucks.
What a realization to have,
that really makes me mad—
and honestly…
kind of sad.
I’m stuck and it’s my fault,
when I’m sitting on fire in the vault.
Maybe that’s the worst part—
knowing I’m built for more
than this loop I keep living.
Knowing I’ve got heat
in my hands,
ideas that burn holes
through the page,
dreams loud enough
to shake the dust off my life…
Yet—
I keep waking up
in the same place,
I swore I’d outgrown.
And maybe that’s why
the anger hits so hard—
because I can feel the future
pressing against the walls,
like it’s waiting for me
to finally stop hesitating
and let myself out.
I keep talking about change
like it’s a storm on the horizon,
but maybe the storm is me—
all this pressure,
all this potential,
all this fire I keep storing
instead of using.
Maybe I’m not stuck
because I’m weak—
maybe I’m stuck
because I’m scared
of what happens
when I finally move.
Journey with the Hexverse…
[Through My View] No two people experience the world the same way. Through My View is a reflective free verse poem exploring perspective, imagination, and the impossibility of fully seeing through another person’s eyes.
[More Afraid Than the Ink] Some confessions are easy to write but impossible to speak. More Afraid Than the Ink explores fear, dreams, recurring symbols, and the quiet realization that the page has always been braver than the poet.
[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.
[Chemical X] Chemical X explores the rapid, associative way one creative mind moves—from cartoons to sports, comic books to music—revealing that inspiration isn’t linear, but a collision of memory, humor, rhythm, and intuition.
[Where Music Becomes Weather] Some songs feel like storms. Others feel like shelter. Where Music Becomes Weather explores how music shapes emotion, memory, and the landscapes we carry within us.
The airport. The flight. The familiar shoreline. The city streets I’ve never lived in, yet somehow know by heart.
They return so often that they’ve become part of my personal mythology.
Every night seems to begin the same way. As I drift toward sleep, the quiet of my bedroom dissolves into the sounds of a busy terminal. I never question why I’m there anymore. I simply board another flight, knowing it will carry me to the same destination.
What’s strange isn’t that the dream repeats.
It’s that every repetition feels less like imagination and more like recognition.
I’ve never believed dreams need to predict the future to matter. Sometimes they simply reveal the places our hearts keep returning to before we’re ready to admit why.
This poem isn’t really about airports or travel.
It’s about the quiet certainty that some destinations seem to choose us long before we choose them.
— Rowan Evans
Some journeys begin the moment we close our eyes.
Every Night, The Same Flight Poetry by Rowan Evans
I laid—slowly drifting, I was slipping
from consciousness to slumber.
I was boarding that flight,
the one I take every night.
The journey always starts the same,
eyes flutter, like the moths in my stomach.
Then the sounds of terminals,
passengers rushing pas me
in search of their gates.
But this isn’t an airport—
it’s just my brain.
The gate numbers blur,
shifting like thoughts I haven’t named yet.
Every announcement echoes
in a voice I almost recognize.
I walk toward a destination,
unsure of where I’m going,
but somehow already knowing—
I’m meant to catch a flight,
of which there are plenty—
one for every thought of you,
of which there are many.
They always lead to the same place—
always the same shores, the same bay,
and it always feels like it’s calling my name.
The way the moon shimmers the same,
its reflection dancing across the waves.
Then I always find myself wandering city streets,
feeling the heat and humidity.
But I would rather be, nowhere else.
I wander—
taking in the sights and sounds,
bathing in the smells all around.
I wonder—
what would it be like if this was home.
Yeah, what if this was my life now?
I breathe it in,
the warmth, the noise, the pulse—
a life that feels borrowed,
yet somehow mine.
It’s a preview that I get every night—
and I wonder if the dream
is trying to tell me something
I’m not ready to say awake.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Where I Belonged] A bedroom becomes an airport in the space between sleep and waking. Where I Belonged explores liminal consciousness, uncertainty, and the strange moments when reality feels suspended between two worlds.
[Pointing Me Home] The final poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind trilogy explores dreams, hope, and belonging. Through moonlight, ocean tides, and quiet conversation, Pointing Me Home reflects on carrying hope long before reaching the place you call home.
[Caller ID: Destiny] Sometimes the places we visit in our dreams feel more like home than the places we wake up in. Caller ID: Destiny explores longing, belonging, and the quiet feeling that life is calling you toward somewhere new.
[Returning to My Bones] Some dreams fade the moment we wake. Others leave behind emotions that linger long after reality returns. Returning to My Bones explores the strange grief of leaving a dream that felt real enough to matter.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 