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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Empowerment

  • I Am Not Your Puzzle – A Poetic Exploration of Identity, Duality & Self

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    This piece explores the tension between external assumptions and inner truth. It reflects on dualities of identity—masculine and feminine, strength and softness, approachability and untouchability—and celebrates the uncontainable self. It is a declaration: I will not conform to expectations; I am fully, unapologetically me.

    Ethereal figure at stormy ocean edge, blending masculine and feminine features, half in sunlight, half in shadow, representing paradox and self-identity.
    “I am fire wrapped in silk. A storm brushing against calm. I am not your puzzle. I am me.”

    I Am Not Your Puzzle
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    They stare.
    They whisper.
    They assign me shapes that do not exist.

    “Man.”
    “Woman.”
    “Something else.”
    All wrong.

    I am fire wrapped in silk,
    a storm brushing against the calm,
    the knife that softens,
    the hand that strikes,
    the laugh that shatters silence.

    They want to understand me.
    They cannot.
    I am not a riddle to solve,
    not a lesson for their comfort.
    I am not for your ease,
    not for your comprehension.
    I am me.

    Masculine. Feminine. Both. Neither.
    A contradiction that hums beneath skin,
    that bends time and expectation,
    that exists fully
    even when the world cannot name it.

    I am tender and terrifying.
    Soft enough to hold your secrets,
    sharp enough to cut illusions in half.
    I am easy to love,
    but impossible to own.

    You think you see me—
    but the closer you lean, the more I slip.
    I will not fit your boxes.
    I will not stand still for your definitions.
    I will not shrink to make your eyes comfortable.

    I am the surface and the depth,
    the ache and the exhale,
    the hand that heals
    and the fire that purges.

    Call me what you want—
    I am not your puzzle.
    I am the storm, the calm, the contradiction,
    the infinite they cannot name.
    I am me.

    And that is more than enough.

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

  • Her Story – A Poem About Insecurity, Possessiveness & Honoring a Woman’s Past

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Her Story was born from frustration — not with women, but with the men who turn a woman’s past into a personal insult. This poem confronts the insecurity, entitlement, and emotional immaturity that drive so many men to treat a woman’s history like a threat instead of a testament to her strength.

    This piece isn’t about blame; it’s about perspective. A woman’s story is not a competition, not a purity test, not a battlefield for fragile egos. It is something to honor — not to resent.

    I wrote this to challenge that mindset, to hold a mirror to possessiveness disguised as devotion, and to remind anyone who needs to hear it that a woman owes no one an apology for having lived before you. She owes no one her silence. She owes no one her shame. She owes you nothing.

    — Rowan Evans

    Illustration of a woman in profile with handwritten text layered inside her silhouette and a warm halo of light behind her, representing her past and resilience.
    A woman’s story is not a threat — it’s something to honor.

    Her Story
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Why do some guys
    get so hung up on the past?
    Why do you care so much,
    what happened before you?
    So what she’s lived a life before—
    oh no, someone wanted to make her their wife before.
    I’m so jealous, watch me act out, get hellish.
    Nah, I’m just playin’, just joking around—
    Because it’s not about the past for me,
    getting that hung up on her before…
    that’s blasphemy.

    So if you can, answer me this…
    why do so many guys get pissed?
    Yeah, she has experiences—
    that you can’t touch.
    They happened before you,
    why let them affect you so much?

    Why does her story
    feel like a threat
    instead of a lesson
    that she’s survived,
    lived, loved, lost—
    and still chose you
    in this moment?

    Why does her story
    make you small,
    when it should make you honored
    to be part of the chapter
    she won’t have to rewrite?

    Why do you police her scars
    as if she owes you
    purity, silence,
    a spotless record
    to soothe your ego?

    You want devotion
    but shudder at evidence
    that she lived
    before your shadow
    ever touched her skin.

    But here’s the truth:
    A woman with a past
    isn’t a warning label—
    she’s a masterpiece
    restoring herself.
    And if that scares you,
    it’s not her history
    you’re terrified of—
    it’s your own reflection.

    It’s because you don’t feel worth—
    the attention, or affection.
    You don’t feel like you
    can handle her truth.
    You can’t honor what she’s been through,
    so it weighs on you, and it weighs heavy.
    You do what you can to
    try and prove
    you’re ready.

    But you’re not.
    You’re just like every other guy,
    sitting back, asking why?
    Why not me?
    I’ve been,
    nice as can be.
    Sounding like she owes you something,
    but the truth is—
    She owes you nothing.

    If you enjoyed Her Story, you can feel free to explore The Library of Ashes…

  • Mahal Ko Ako – A Fierce Love Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is me claiming my lane—and hers. Some love isn’t gentle. Some love doesn’t whisper. Some love says fuck off to anyone who dares mess with the person you care about.

    It’s about seeing yourself, owning your power, and then using it to carve out a safe, unshakable space for someone else. It’s protective. It’s fierce. It’s loyal. And yes… it’s a little bit savage, because sometimes love has to be.

    Consider it a love letter, a shield, and a warning—all rolled into one.

    Warm firelight reflecting on an urban driveway at night, symbolizing protection and fierce devotion.
    Some love protects. Some love roars. Mahal Ko Ako – Rowan Evans.

    Mahal Ko Ako
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    They think I don’t really like myself,
    because I sometimes say I hate myself—
    but really, I’m always feeling myself.

    So I’ll say it simply—mahal ko ako,
    I’m somebody nobody can fuck with.

    Trust me, I know—pangit ako,
    I didn’t just forget; I own a mirror.
    I know what I look like,
    but I know what I can give.

    So when you think something cruel,
    I’ll say it before you can.
    I’ll take that power away from you.
    A bully with no power—
    they’re just noise.

    Now—let’s switch focus.

    Yeah—
    I’m looking at you, asshole.
    You add stress on her.
    Unnecessary stress.

    Me?
    I ease the storm.
    Give her a safe place
    to rest.

    When her world caves in,
    who does she run to?

    Here’s a hint:
    it isn’t you.

    And just so we’re clear—
    when you fuck up, I hear about it.
    Like when you said…

    You liked her for her dominance?
    But her attitude is too much?
    That’s a skill issue.

    Are you a man or a boy?
    Sounds like…
    You’re a little bitch.

    Then, with such audacity,
    you said she was too pretty—
    that no white guy would like her
    because she’s “not exotic enough.”

    Hi—white guy here.
    And I’m white,
    as fresh snow.
    I like her just fine.
    Exactly as she is.

    One more thing—
    “Exotic”? Not for people, asshole.
    That’s for cars only.

    Fuck you.
    Have a nice day.

    For more of my poetry, you can find it here: The Library of Ashes

  • Done Being Humble | Neo-Gothic Confessional Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note
    A Pep Talk from a Poet to Themself

    This piece isn’t arrogance—it’s affirmation.
    Sometimes, after years of writing in silence, you need to remind yourself who you are. To look in the mirror and say, “No, I didn’t come this far just to shrink.”

    Done Being Humble is what a pep talk sounds like after twenty-two years of ink and evolution. It’s the voice of every poet who’s ever whispered their worth into the void, waiting for someone to echo it back.

    So, I said it for myself.
    Because sometimes you have to be your own applause, your own myth, your own lightning strike.

    — Rowan Evans

    Open journal floating with glowing ink, quill hovering, ink forming roses and letters, dark velvet room with neon highlights.
    Where ink ignites, and poetry becomes rebellion.

    Done Being Humble
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I think—
    I’ve been a bit too humble.
    It’s time I crown myself properly.
    My poetry? God tier.
    My ink doesn’t dry—
    it anoints.

    I’m Plath meets Sexton,
    Poe meets Dickinson,
    Sappho’s ghost in a velvet coat.
    I write darkness and devotion,
    ruin and resurrection.
    I am chiaroscuro, personified.

    My words aren’t poems—
    they’re prophecies in drag.
    I don’t bleed metaphors;
    I summon worlds.
    I write in ink and fire,
    every stanza a spell
    that resurrects the broken.

    I’m top tier.
    In my top five,
    I’m the top two.
    Your favorite poet’s
    favorite poet—
    they just haven’t realized it yet.

    My power level with a pen?
    It’s over 9000.
    Get your scouters out,
    watch me make you break ’em.

    Out of the greatest poets alive,
    I am the entire top five.
    I’m Cell—you’re all just Cell Jr.
    Mini-mes, trembling in lowercase.

    Go ahead—
    Name your top five, please.
    They’re the Ginyu Force next to me.
    Court jesters in my cathedral of ink.
    My skill? Unmatched.
    Full potential? Untapped.
    I’m not even in final form yet.

    I’ve been writing twenty-two years.
    Here’s to twenty-two more.
    I wrote in silence, in shadow,
    where no one could see me.
    Didn’t write for applause—
    I wrote for evolution.

    Poem after poem,
    I built myself from wreckage.
    A cathedral of roses and ruin.
    Words wrapped around me,
    a chrysalis of ink.
    Metamorphosis complete—
    I let my wings show.

    Butterfly and bee:
    beautiful, but my words sting though.
    Every stanza? Venomous elegance.

    I’m done being humble.
    Done pretending.
    That I’m not a modern-day Poe,
    a Sylvia reborn,
    a Sappho remix,
    a myth rewritten in the language of fire.

    I’m the storm that writes sonnets,
    the cathedral of cadence,
    the ghost that teaches language to kneel.

    Twenty-two years at thirty-five,
    and you act surprised—
    when I write like this?

    God didn’t give me a pen.
    She gave me a sword.
    And I learned to write
    by carving my name
    into eternity.

    My drafts? Better than most books.
    My rough cuts? Polished marble.
    My metaphors? Break hearts and sound barriers.
    When I write, angels hush.
    Demons pull up chairs.

    I’ve been the quiet storm too long—
    time to let the thunder speak.
    You call it arrogance;
    I call it prophecy fulfilled.
    Because when I write,
    the universe leans in to listen.
    And when I’m gone?
    My ink will still whisper:
    She was here.
    He was here.
    They were here.

    For more of my work visit [The Library of Ashes].

  • Adam’s Rib – Anti-Patriarchy Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note
    Written July 4th, 2024

    Adam’s Rib isn’t a critique of faith, but a reflection on the social structures and narratives we inherit. It’s about questioning the old stories that place limitations on women, elevating men, and silencing voices that deserve to be heard. This poem celebrates autonomy, strength, and the courage to rise beyond outdated expectations.

    A woman breaking free from chains shaped like a ribcage, glowing with light, symbolizing empowerment and breaking free from patriarchy.
    Breaking free from inherited stories and societal chains—Adam’s Rib by Rowan Evans celebrates strength, autonomy, and empowerment.

    Adam’s Rib
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    From Adam’s rib, they wove her frame,
    A tale of old, a patriarch’s claim,
    To shape her role, to dim her light,
    In quiet submission, she must abide.

    But beneath the surface, a fire burns,
    In every heart, a voice that yearns,
    To break the chains of ancient lore,
    And stand tall, demand for more.

    Society’s yoke, a heavy weight,
    Expectations to capitulate,
    To sacrifice dreams on hearthstone’s fire,
    While men ascend, their dreams aspire.

    Yet in the shadows, whispers rise,
    From women bold, who defy the lies,
    That paint them less, by man’s decree,
    Their strength unseen, yet to be free.

    So raise your voice, your spirits high,
    Let echoes ring across the sky,
    For in your unity, the patriarchy crumbles,
    And from its ashes, justice rumbles.

    No longer bound by Adam’s rib,
    But sovereign souls, a vibrant crib,
    Where dreams take flight, and hopes ignite,
    A world reborn, in equal light.

    Together we stand, unyielding and strong,
    To rewrite the tale, where we belong,
    In every heart, in every plea,
    Adam’s rib no more, we are free.

    Benediction

    May the whispers of courage grow louder each day.
    May every voice denied strength find its power.
    And may we continue to dismantle the systems that bind,
    Celebrating freedom, autonomy, and equal light.

    You can find more of my poetry in The Library of Ashes.

  • For the Youth: A Poetic Call to Rise, Shine, and Ignite

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    For the Youth is a whisper to every young heart, everywhere—an urging to rise, to shine, to ignite your own fire. Across continents and cultures, no matter where you stand, your voice is a spark, your truth a flame. May this poem remind you that even in the shadows, you are the light, the dreamers, the revolution in motion.

    Young people standing on hilltops at sunrise, arms raised, bathed in warm light, symbolizing hope and empowerment.
    Rise, shine, ignite—the youth hold the power to light the world.

    For the Youth
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    To the youth of the world, hear this whispering call,
    You are the dawn breaking, the rise after the fall.
    Embrace your truth, let it shimmer, let it shine,
    Rise, shine, ignite—your spirit divine.

    Stand tall like mountains, unyielding and grand,
    Let your voices ring out, a wild, fierce band.
    Be loud, be proud, let your colors unfurl,
    Rise, shine, ignite—the dreamers of the world.

    Your light is a beacon in shadows so stark,
    A flame in the darkness, igniting the spark.
    Don’t let whispers of doubt cast their pall,
    Rise, shine, ignite—you will not fall.

    In gardens of chaos, you bloom and you fight,
    Petals of courage dispelling the night.
    See your worth, young hearts, let it echo and soar,
    Rise, shine, ignite—the poets, and more.

    Know there’s room for growth, like trees reaching high,
    Roots deep in the earth, branches in the sky.
    Your journey is sacred, each step is your song,
    Rise, shine, ignite—you’ve always belonged.

    So rise from the ashes, let your dreams take flight,
    Illuminate the world with your radiant light.
    You are the change, the revolution’s embrace,
    Rise, shine, ignite—a fearless face.

    To the youth of the world, this message I send:
    Your hearts are the compass, your voices the trend.
    Embrace your own truth, let it blaze and alight,
    Rise, shine, ignite—turn darkness to light.

    If you are interested in reading more of my work, you can find the full archive in The Library of Ashes.