Some people leave, but their weather stays. This poem is not about loss—it is about endurance, memory, and the quiet strength it takes to remain standing when the storm remembers everything.
Some people leave, but their weather stays.
I Am the Storm That Remembers Poetry by Rowan Evans
Everyone comes into our lives for a reason,
but some are only meant for a season.
Then the weather changes,
and they begin to drift.
It may not hit like an immediate shift,
it may slowly unfold and fade.
Yet even as they go,
their footprints linger,
like sunlight caught in the corner of a room,
warm but unreachable.
For me, memories swirl
like storm clouds roiling overhead,
thunder rolling through my chest,
lightning flashing their faces,
voices cutting through the wind—
too sharp to ignore, too loud to forget.
I try to run.
I try to close the windows,
pull the shutters tight.
But the storm is patient.
It seeps through cracks,
slips under doors,
lingers in the spaces I thought I’d cleared.
Rain falls in shards,
drenches my quiet moments,
washes over laughter I can’t recover,
drowns the footprints of the ones who left.
And yet, in the chaos,
there is a strange kind of clarity:
the storm remembers,
and so do I.
I wish I could let it go,
to be like them—
so quick to forget,
so light in the sun.
But I am not.
I am the storm’s echo,
the residue of seasons past,
and somehow, I carry their weight
and my own,
and I am still here,
breathing,
walking,
storm-beaten but alive.
“Some people flinch when they see fangs. I lean in.”
This poem is for those who defend themselves fiercely —
and for the ones who find beauty in that strength.
“Some people flinch when they see fangs. I lean in.” — Rowan Evans
Beautiful Little Cobra Poetry by Rowan Evans
You started spitting venom again, and I leaned in— and you said it was the same as before, so I confessed, it made me want you more. And you teased, my preferences are weird. But I know, baby, I know… I can’t help it, when it comes to matters of the heart.
Yeah, you started spitting venom, and I knew it wasn’t directed at me, so I leaned in again. I tried to feel it, let the venom kiss my skin. It felt like a little win, or maybe I just love the way you sin. It was the way you said you hate him, and the death you wished upon— Like a beautiful little cobra.
It makes me want you more the way your fury glows. So I moved closer, just to feel the heat… your flames. You said it like a warning— but it doesn’t scare me— the way it keeps me warm.
I love the way you refuse to shrink— when you stand a little taller. Tell me, where’d you get it from— this fire? I’ll be honest though, it doesn’t really matter to me. I’ve always been attracted to danger.
☣️🔥🐍🔥☣️
I just love how you spit that venom. You beautiful little cobra. The way you’re so willing, always willing to defend yourself. Too smart to fall for the bullshit, and I love that about you. It tells me, you’ll put me in my place, if it were needed.
But I promise, with me— it’ll never be needed. Because I love you, truly— like a beautiful little cobra.
Unsent Letters to My Muse
Where the Ocean Dreams & Where the Dream Took Us “Two dreams, two nights, one heart. Where the Ocean Dreams explores tender longing and emotional trust, while Where the Dream Took Us dives into desire, intimacy, and devotion. A double-feature of dream-inspired poetry by Rowan Evans.”
Perfectly Imperfect: A Poem About Loving Someone as They Are Perfection isn’t the absence of flaws — it’s recognizing the beauty that thrives alongside them. This poem celebrates those who have been told they’re ‘too much’ or ‘not enough,’ reminding them they are loved exactly as they are.
The Prayer of Two Tongues | Bilingual Love Poem in English & Tagalog A bilingual love poem written in both English and Tagalog, “The Prayer of Two Tongues” explores intimacy, distance, and devotion across language and longing. Inspired by my muse, this piece weaves prayer and poetry into a bridge between hearts.
This poem is both a confession and a mirror. It reflects the invisible battles so many of us fight while the world mistakes our survival for apathy. The italicized lines aren’t just quotes — they’re echoes of judgment, the voices that press in on anyone living with trauma, anxiety, or panic.
Survive is my answer to them. Survival isn’t weakness; it’s a skill. It’s an art form. It’s a rebellion so quiet most people never hear it, but it exists in every single breath we take after thinking we couldn’t.
If you’ve ever been made to feel “less than” for simply keeping yourself alive, this poem is for you.
“Every day I rise again. Survival is my quietest rebellion.” — Rowan Evans
Survive Poetry by Rowan Evans
I walk through a world that’s constantly judging, while I’m just trying to keep my head above the waves. I panic at the little things, the things you all take for granted.
You get behind the wheel without a second thought, and for me, it causes pause because I remember the danger. The fact that everything is out of my control.
I just want to be normal, I just want to be whole. But I’m fighting against my brain, I’m fighting against past pain and your judging stares. It’s okay, I know, nobody cares.
“You don’t know how to cook.” “You don’t know how to drive.”
I’m fighting these thoughts, just trying to stay alive. I’ve got anxiety with panic attacks, I can’t breathe when the panic attacks— so please, don’t look at me like I’m lazy, like I don’t want to learn. It hurts. I’m just trying to keep myself alive, I’m really just tryin’ to survive.
But survival is not weakness. It’s the hardest art I know. Every day I rise again, and that, even if you never see it… is my quietest rebellion.
If this piece resonates with you, check out more of my work in—The Library of Ashes.
Punchline is a reckoning with the twisted humor life offers when pain and absurdity collide. This poem is not about despair—it is about recognition: standing in the ruins of your own story, laughing through jagged edges, and finding strange grace in the shadow of suffering. It is for anyone who has felt like the universe’s jester, bleeding ink instead of tears, and still choosing to dance.
Punchline by Rowan Evans: where darkness and laughter collide, and the jester always dances.
✦ Invocation ✦
I call forth shadows that speak in laughter— the jagged smiles behind masks, the truths too sharp for daylight. Let this poem be your mirror and torch, a hall of fractured stanzas where the jester refuses to fall silent.
Punchline Poetry by Rowan Evans
My life—a black comedy penned in cracked ink, each breath a fractured stanza on the brink. A coffin nailed tight with bitter mirth, laughter spilling blood beneath the earth.
I am the jester in hell’s shadowed hall, dancing on bones, awaiting the fall. A smile carved from porcelain, cracked and thin, playing the fool while darkness grins.
Fate wrote me in venom, stitched in jest, a tragic script with no reprieve, no rest. The setup—a wound that never heals, I’m the punchline bleeding beneath the seals.
I laugh through ruin, jagged pain, a serenade to sorrow’s haunting refrain, mocking the void with a razor’s kiss, finding grace—twisted—in the abyss.
I’ve worn the crown of shattered glass, a queen of mirrors cracked en masse, where every shard reflects a lie, a fractured truth that mocks the sky.
In the theater of my own despair, the audience gone, yet I still stare— ghostly faces in the dark, their silence sharp, a cruel remark.
I spill my verses like poisoned wine, each word a dagger dipped in rue, sung soft in minor keys anew.
The world’s cruel joke—I play my part, a bleeding heart with broken art. But even jesters hold their scars, and dance beneath the fading stars.
A laugh that falls like shattered glass, the jest that haunts, too sharp to pass, and under it all, the silent sigh— the shadow’s whisper, a quiet goodbye.
Beneath the mask, the blood and grime, lies a soul that twists through space and time, a darkly woven tapestry spun— where pain and beauty are undone.
And in that unraveling, I find release— the bitter truth, the sweetest peace. Life may jest and fate may tease, but I write my own damn punchline, please.
✦ Benediction ✦
May your laughter cut through the dark like shattered glass, may your scars hum a quiet, sacred song. Even when the jest is cruel, find your voice— and in the ruins, discover you are still, always, unbroken.
– A gothic, whimsical mash-up of childhood curiosity and the raw bite of darkness.
Tip the Chair “My mind it races, heartbeat slows, lungs burning for a mercy that never shows—”
– Stark, intimate, and darkly humorous in its confrontation with despair.
The Hopeless Romantic Wears Armor “I’ve written poems to silence, and bled ink for people who didn’t know what it meant to be cherished without condition.”
– Tender, self-aware, and resilient; love persists even through jagged edges.
Some wounds do not heal; they become architecture. The Cathedral Within is the map of mine. It is the sacred ruin I carry — where gargoyles remember my laughter, where ghosts wear the faces of those I loved, and where even the pews grow teeth when I speak.
This is not a poem about despair. It is about defiance. About what it means to cradle darkness without letting it consume your capacity to love. It is a prayer for those who choose softness anyway — velvet over iron, kiss over curse — and win, simply by refusing to grow cold.
The Cathedral Within — where softness stands as rebellion in the ruins.
✦ Invocation ✦
There is a cathedral rotting in my mind—
its steeple split by lightning,
its bells tolling madness
in a language only I understand.
The walls bleed scripture in reverse.
The air stinks of burnt prayer and mildew.
Gargoyles laugh with broken jaws,
their eyes brimming with everything I’ve buried.
✦ The Procession ✦
Demons waltz in blood-soaked gowns, twirling through the nave with glee— my failures their favorite hymn, my shame the rhythm beneath their feet.
Ghosts hang from the rafters like forgotten chandeliers, dripping memories onto cracked marble. Each one wears a face I loved, each one left me hollow.
The altar is an autopsy table. They dissect my past there nightly— the knife a whisper, the blade my own voice asking why I wasn’t enough.
✦ The Vigil ✦
I lived a decade as a wraith— not alive, not dead, just echo. A loop of regret rerun in shadows, a scream too hoarse to haunt.
I’ve stitched myself from sinew and smoke, patched the holes with confessions no one stayed long enough to hear. Even the pews grow teeth when I speak.
These bones? They rattle with rot, splinter under silence, but still I rise— a marionette of will, strung together by threads of stubborn grace.
✦ The Benediction ✦
This softness—they call it weakness, but— softness is my rebellion. It is velvet over iron, a lullaby sung to devils, a kiss placed gently on the mouth of the void.
I do not know why I try. Only that I do. That something inside me refuses to go quietly into apathy.
So if you saw the dark I cradle— the feral, starving chaos I contain— you’d understand: choosing love is not a gentle thing. It is a war.
And every time I smile instead of scream, I win.
“Even in the rot, there is light. Even in the silence, there is song. Keep choosing love, and you’ve already won.” — Rowan Evans
For those who cry quietly in bathroom stalls. For those who apologize when they should have screamed. For those whose softness was mistaken for surrender— This gospel is yours. Your ache is sacred. Your tenderness is a war cry with petals in its mouth.
“Thirteen Psalms for the Tender-Hearted” Poetry by Rowan Evans
✦ These psalms are dedicated to ✦
✦ The boys who cry in secret. ✦ The girls who never stopped feeling. ✦ The queers, the witches, the warriors who bleed beauty into the dark.
This gospel is yours. Welcome home.
✦ Psalm I ✦ For the Ones Who Still Bloom
i am not a weapon. i am the wound that chose to bloom.
✦ Psalm II ✦ For the Boys Who Were Told to Be Brave
they taught him fists, but he offered flowers. they called him weak— but he never let the fire turn him cruel.
✦ Psalm III ✦ For the Girl Who Cries Easily
let them call it weakness— this ache i carry like a crown. i know it as worship.
✦ Psalm IV ✦ For the Boy With a Gentle Voice
he never raised his voice. so they never heard the thunder that lived in his quiet.
✦ Psalm V ✦ For the Ones Who Love Without Armor
my softness is not silence. it is thunder, made quiet for the sake of gentler ears.
✦ Psalm VI ✦ For the Survivors Who Still Say “I Love You”
the fire touched me too. but i still say “i love you” like a lullaby, not a warning.
✦ Psalm VII ✦ For the Ones Who Stayed Kind
some nights, i only survive by reading the poems i haven’t written yet.
✦ Psalm VIII ✦ For the Misnamed and Misunderstood
she told me i was too much. so i became everything.
✦ Psalm IX ✦ For the Sacred Masculine
he is not hard. he is holy. and his softness is scripture.
✦ Psalm X ✦ For the One Who Chose Love Again
they broke me and i still built a home with my hands full of splinters.
✦ Psalm XI ✦ For the Queer Ones Who Survived
we loved wrong, they said. but we loved true— and we survived without bitterness.
✦ Psalm XII ✦ For the Child Who Lives in You
you are not too sensitive. you are just fluent in the language of feeling. that is not a flaw— it’s your first tongue.
✦ Psalm XIII ✦ For You, Tender-Hearted One
your softness is not an accident. it is the last sacred thing they cannot take.
✦ Final Benediction ✦
May your softness remain. Even when it’s heavy. Even when it’s mocked. Even when the world calls it a wound.
May you remember: You are not weak. You are woven from wonder. You are made of fire and mercy and ink. And you are still—still—holy.
Which psalm resonated with you most? Leave your blessing below.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 