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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Emotional Resilience

  • The Life of a Witness Poet | A Poem About Loving from a Distance

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems arrive as declarations.

    This one arrived as an observation.

    I’ve often described myself as a witness poet—someone who pays attention, who notices the emotional weather around the people I care about, and then translates those observations into poetry.

    Sometimes that role feels like a gift.

    Sometimes it feels helpless.

    Because witnessing doesn’t always come with the ability to change what you see.

    You can recognize someone’s strength, admire their resilience, ache alongside their struggles, and still be separated by circumstances larger than either of you.

    This poem isn’t about unrequited love.

    It isn’t about sacrifice.

    It’s about accepting that love isn’t always measured by proximity.

    Sometimes love looks like paying attention.

    Sometimes it looks like quietly hoping someone feels a little less alone because, somewhere in the world, another heart witnessed their struggle with compassion instead of judgment.

    That’s the strange privilege—and responsibility—of being a witness poet.

    Not every distance is meant to be closed.

    Some are simply meant to be seen.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure watching moonlight shimmer across a calm ocean toward a distant shore, symbolizing quiet love, witnessing, and emotional distance.
    “Some distances cannot be crossed—but they can still be held with compassion.”

    The Life of a Witness Poet
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    The life of a witness poet—

    it’s harder than you think,
    when your heart bleeds in ink.
    And it only gets harder
    when you’ve fallen
    for the one you witness.

    You see the weight she carries,
    you watch from a distance—
    your hands tied by the tide,
    and the gap—an ocean wide.
    You want to be a light in her life—

    like the moon in the sky.

    You learn to glow quietly,
    hoping she’ll look up someday—

    not for you,
    but for the comfort
    you’ve been trying to give
    from a distance.

    So you learn to love in silence,
    in the spaces between her storms—

    holding what you can,
    honoring what you can’t,
    knowing some distances
    aren’t meant to be crossed,
    only witnessed.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [What I’m Trying to Say]
    What begins as an exaggerated promise of love slowly strips itself back until only one simple truth remains: real devotion isn’t found in grand gestures—it’s found in consistently showing up.

    [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.

    [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.

    [Only Waiting]
    The second poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind series, exploring the quiet ache of growing up in a place that never truly felt like home—and finally saying aloud what years of metaphor had been trying to express.

    [Crossing the Sea]
    A deeply personal poem about relocation, longing, and the realization that some truths naturally arrive through metaphor—even when we try to leave it behind.

    [I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise]
    Love has never come easily to me. This poem explores the fear, vulnerability, and quiet courage required to stay emotionally present when connection begins to matter deeply. “I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise” is about choosing love despite the risk of heartbreak—and promising to remain long enough to witness someone fully.

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

  • 5:01 (Pull the Punchline Back) | A Confessional Poem About Humor as Emotional Armor

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some people assume that because I write confessional poetry, vulnerability comes naturally to me.

    It doesn’t.

    My first instinct is almost always to make a joke.

    If something hurts, I’ll reach for humor. If something feels too exposed, I’ll bury it beneath a cartoon reference, a comic book nod, or a punchline that arrives just before the truth does.

    This poem is about that instinct.

    It explores the strange contradiction at the center of my writing: I’m willing to confess almost anything—as long as I can disguise it first.

    The title, 5:01, marks another early morning when my thoughts were moving faster than I could organize them. And “Pull the Punchline Back” became my way of describing what happens when I realize I’ve hidden behind humor for just a second too long.

    Sometimes the joke protects me.

    Sometimes it prevents me from saying what I actually mean.

    This poem lives somewhere between those two realities.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone person walking through an empty street at sunrise while faded comic book imagery dissolves into the morning light, symbolizing humor giving way to emotional honesty.
    Sometimes the hardest part of confession isn’t finding the words—it’s resisting the joke that tries to replace them.

    5:01 (Pull the Punchline Back)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    5:01—
    the morning comes
    and my thoughts run,
    like a marathon.

    You see—
    most the time
    my thoughts move quick,
    like a sprint—
    Usain?

    No, insane.

    I bolt when I feel
    I care too much—

    here the vulnerability comes,
    so where’s the joke at?
    I got to hide that—
    pull the punchline back.

    I put a brave face on—
    they call me Courage,
    even though
    I’m a cowardly dog.

    Isn’t it funny?
    I’m a confessional poet,
    but I hide the confession
    behind a wall of jokes—

    and cartoon references—
    can’t forget the comic books.

    The page is a phone booth,
    I go into to change—
    but I’m not trying to be a hero here,
    there’s no S on my chest.

    I’m just here for those
    that are stressed and struggling.

    And this is my problem,
    I’ve got my own problems,
    then I take mo’ problems,
    they were yo’ problems—

    now I’m juggling.

    The sad thing is—
    the whole time
    this is what my mind
    has been running from.

    It’s incredible—
    how fast I Dash,
    gone in a Flash,
    like I ran to the past
    to escape—

    everything I want.

    Connection.
    Reflection.

    So I keep my feet moving
    until I get where I’m going,
    and I’m not showin’—
    no signs of slowin’.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [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.

    [Tots, Rocks and All]
    What begins as a surreal collection of tater tots, rocks, comic book references, and runaway thoughts slowly reveals something much quieter: a poem about creativity, vulnerability, and the simple hope of finding someone willing to hold your heart.

    [Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)]
    What begins as a surreal collection of tater tots, rocks, comic book references, and runaway thoughts slowly reveals something much quieter: a poem about creativity, vulnerability, and the simple hope of finding someone willing to hold your heart.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [No You and I, Only Us]
    A hopeful free verse poem about empathy, borders, and imagining a world where humanity matters more than division.

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

  • Reading the Sky | A Poem About Depression, Healing, and Emotional Cycles

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    People sometimes talk about depression like it’s constant sadness.

    For me, it’s rarely that simple.

    Sometimes it’s pressure. Sometimes it’s exhaustion. Sometimes it’s numbness so quiet you don’t notice how deep you’ve sunk until something shifts and suddenly you can breathe again.

    That’s where this piece came from.

    Not from a dramatic breakthrough— just a morning where the weight felt lighter.

    And when you’ve carried storms inside yourself for long enough, even small moments of relief can feel almost unreal.

    But one of the hardest things to learn about living with depression is this:

    good days don’t erase bad ones, and bad days don’t erase good ones.

    The storm passing doesn’t mean it’ll never return.

    It means you survived it long enough to recognize clear skies when they arrive.

    That’s what Reading the Sky became about for me.

    Not curing the storm. Not defeating it.

    Just learning its patterns. Learning when the pressure shifts. Learning how to keep breathing through both the thunder and the quiet afterward.

    And maybe most importantly—

    allowing yourself to enjoy the clean air when it finally comes.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person stands beneath clearing storm clouds as sunlight begins breaking through the sky after rain.
    Some victories are simply learning how to breathe again after the storm passes.

    Reading the Sky
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I woke today
    feeling different—

    like everything
    had changed,
    in an instant.

    Like the storm inside
    had finally gone silent.
    The winds had died,
    but I was alive.

    Smile on my face—
    for the first time,
    didn’t feel out of place.

    I could still see
    lightning on the edges
    of my perception—
    feel the rumble
    of thunder
    in my chest.

    It was softer now.

    This storm had passed,
    but another
    would surely come.

    It’s a cycle—

    and these things
    have a season.

    The storms?

    They come
    and go.

    That’ll never change.

    It’s learning
    to read the sky,
    to feel
    when the pressure shifts.

    Now let me say this plain…

    I’ve got depression.

    It lives in my chest,
    waiting to teach me lessons.

    It’s a storm
    I’ve weathered—

    more than
    any one person should.

    That’s what makes
    days like these—
    feel like the cleanest air
    I’ve ever breathed.

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

  • The Waves That Call Me – A Poem About Dreams, Doubt, and Moving Forward

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    For a long time, I confused standing still with failure.

    Like if I wasn’t moving fast enough, succeeding quickly enough, becoming who I wanted to be on everyone else’s timeline—then maybe the people doubting me were right.

    But growth rarely looks clean while you’re inside it.

    Sometimes progress is just continuing to move, even when fear, uncertainty, or other people’s expectations try to keep you frozen in place.

    This piece sits in that space between doubt and momentum.

    Between hearing the warnings… and still feeling the pull forward anyway.

    Because there are moments in life where the call toward something bigger becomes louder than the voices telling you to stay where you are.

    And eventually— you either trust that pull,

    or spend your whole life wondering what would’ve happened if you did.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing on a shoreline looking toward ocean waves symbolizing dreams and personal transformation
    Some voices tell you to stay. The waves tell you to move.

    The Waves That Call Me
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stood on the shoreline,
    eyes locked
    on ocean waves—

    pain and longing
    painted across my face.

    I feel stuck in place,
    like I forgot
    I’m trying to win
    the race.

    But I’ve got dreams
    to chase.

    One foot
    and then the other—

    even as they doubt me.

    They shout:
    “Not a snowball’s chance in—”

    Well—

    leave them puddles
    at my feet.

    I thrive in heat.

    They think
    they’ve got room
    to talk,
    trying to still
    my walk
    with warnings.

    They try
    to warn me.

    They say—
    only time will tell.

    But she’s not speaking.

    Thinking—
    I’m a failure.

    That’s what
    they said to me.

    If I’m a failure,
    then I’m glad—

    opposites attract,
    and success is coming
    down the track.

    I may have turned,
    taken the long way around—

    but I’ve got dreams,
    and I don’t plan
    to back down.

    So I stand on the edge,
    shoreline stretching
    without end—

    but it’s the waves
    that call me.

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

  • The Music Holds Me Upright – A Poem About Music, Mental Health, and Creativity

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve realized over the years that music does more than inspire my writing.

    It organizes me.

    When my thoughts become too loud, too fragmented, too heavy to carry all at once, music gives them shape. Rhythm turns chaos into movement. Emotion becomes something I can follow instead of drown in.

    This piece is about that process.

    About the strange balance between instability and expression. Between wobbling and staying upright. Between feeling overwhelmed… and still creating anyway.

    The references throughout the poem aren’t random. They reflect the sounds and artists that genuinely help ground me—music that travels across borders the same way emotion does.

    Because sometimes healing doesn’t look like silence or peace.

    Sometimes it looks like headphones on, music loud, pen moving, and surviving one line at a time.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person writing poetry in a dimly lit room surrounded by music-inspired imagery and candlelight
    The ground may shake, but music, ink, and light still hold me upright.

    The Music Holds Me Upright
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I sit with them
    when thoughts get heavy—

    the weight
    I’ve struggled
    to carry.

    My spine bends,
    but never breaks.

    They call me weeble,
    the way I wobble
    but don’t fall down.

    Standing
    on shaking ground.

    Depression.
    Anxiety.

    The fire
    inside of me.

    Flames flicker—
    entranced—

    the pen
    begins
    to dance.

    When thoughts grow heavy
    with the weight
    I’ve struggled
    to carry—

    I write.

    Lights.
    Camera.
    Action.

    The page—
    a stage.

    The pen—
    a dancer.

    Weaving
    ink-stained paths
    across lined paper.

    Word after word,
    I write what hurts—

    but I need
    the music first.

    Soundtrack
    to the chaos,
    drifting through
    Thailand,
    Japan,
    Korea,
    and the Philippines.

    Soundscapes
    helping my emotions
    take shape.

    Painting images,
    arranging metaphors—

    the music becomes
    a tour guide
    inside my mind.

    Each stop
    refracting—

    light fractured,
    split.

    A new emotion
    coming into focus
    as the sound shifts.

    And still,
    I steady—

    not by force,
    but by rhythm.

    The ground may shake.
    The thoughts grow heavy.

    But the music,
    the ink,
    the light—

    they hold me upright
    every time.

    So let the scene roll.
    Let the soundtrack swell.

    I’ll take every fracture,
    every wobble,
    every spark—

    and turn it
    into something
    that moves.

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

  • The Long Way Around – A Poem About Growth, Patience, and Taking the Hard Path

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece started with a line I came across:

    “If you are in a hurry, take the long way around.”

    I don’t know where it actually comes from—but the idea stuck.

    We’re taught to move fast. To find the most direct path. To get from where we are to where we want to be as efficiently as possible.

    But some things don’t survive that kind of movement.

    Some growth only happens in the detours. In the delays. In the parts that feel unnecessary while you’re in them.

    This piece isn’t about slowing down for the sake of it.

    It’s about recognizing that sometimes, the long way isn’t a setback—

    it’s the only path that lets you arrive intact.

    — Rowan Evans

    Winding road through hills at sunset symbolizing a long and meaningful journey.
    Not quickly—but whole.

    The Long Way Around
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    If you’re in a hurry,
    go the long way ’round—
    because sometimes
    the straight line
    is the one that breaks you.

    It’s not ease
    that shapes you.

    It’s the winding roads
    that make you.

    It’s the bends,
    the breaks,
    the slow turns
    that teach you.

    It’s the corners,
    the pauses,
    the places you swore
    you’d never have to pass through.

    And somehow,
    by the time you reach the end,
    you realize
    the long way
    was the only way
    you could have survived.

    Yet still,
    you arrive—

    not quickly,
    but whole.

    The long way
    is the way
    that lasts.

    Journey into the Hexverse!

    [Where the Tide Calls Me]
    What if feeling stuck isn’t about being lost—but about resisting where you’re meant to go? Where the Tide Calls Me explores belonging, movement, and the courage to follow an unseen pull.

    [Just Before I Arrive]
    A voice calls from somewhere just out of reach. Just Before I Arrive explores the feeling of being guided through a dream toward connection—only to wake up before you get there.

    [Dreaming of Other Streets]
    What if the places that feel like home aren’t the ones you’ve lived in? This poem explores dreams, memory, and the quiet search for belonging in unfamiliar places

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

  • I Am the Storm That Remembers | A Poem About Memory & Endurance

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    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.

    A lone figure standing beneath storm clouds, symbolizing memory, endurance, and emotional survival.
    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.

    If you’re looking for more poetry, you can find it here: [The Library of Ashes]

  • Beautiful Little Cobra – A Poem of Fierce Love and Self-Defense by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    “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.

    Illustration of a cobra rising from black roses, symbolizing beauty, danger, and defiance.
    “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.

  • Survive — A Poetic Reflection on Anxiety, Panic, and Resilience by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ Author’s Note ✦

    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.

    Illustration of a lone figure standing at the edge of a calm sea at dawn, symbolizing resilience and survival.
    “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: A Darkly Playful Reckoning in Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ Author’s Note ✦

    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.

    Image of a lone jester dancing among shattered mirrors and marble, symbolizing dark whimsy and emotional resilience.
    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.

    Read Next (Suggestions)

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    Nobody hears the tolling bell.
    My lullabies are laced with lead,
    And sung by ghosts beneath my bed.”

    – 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.