←

Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: free verse poetry

  • The Soil Won’t Write Me | A Poem About Displacement, Creativity, and Survival

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes writing becomes survival before you even realize that’s what it’s turned into.

    This piece came from the realization that I often disappear into craft when my mind gets too loud. I’ll drift into rhyme schemes, metaphors, cadence, imagery—anything that helps me stay afloat emotionally.

    Not because I’m trying to escape life completely.

    More because writing gives shape to feelings that otherwise feel impossible to carry.

    A lot of this poem revolves around rootlessness: the feeling of growing in soil that never fully nurtured you, while still refusing to break under the pressure of it.
    And I think that distinction matters.

    Struggling to root yourself somewhere doesn’t mean you’re weak. Sometimes it simply means the environment around you was never meant to hold the version of you that was trying to grow.

    So this piece became less about collapse and more about persistence.

    About continuing to create meaning even while feeling displaced.

    About refusing to let your environment define your voice.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure stands near the ocean at dusk holding a notebook while storm clouds part above exposed roots in cracked earth.
    Some roots fail because the soil was never meant to hold them.

    The Soil Won’t Write Me
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m sorry—
    I got lost again.

    Drifting between lines,
    bouncing between rhymes—
    if life’s a game,
    I keep forgetting to play.

    Too focused on the craft,
    lost sight of the life behind it.

    Don’t worry—
    I’m not in danger.

    I’ve just gone quiet—
    trying to silence
    a mental riot.

    Thoughts get too loud,
    become a stranger to myself.

    I get lost in the craft,
    turn the pen to a life raft.

    Ink crashes
    like waves overhead,
    carrying secrets
    in the cadence
    of the tides.

    Because every rhyme
    is a shoreline
    on ocean’s edge.

    And this is how it works for me—

    it starts small
    then quickly grows—
    a seed
    into a tree.

    A tree big and tall,
    but the foundation is weak—
    there are no roots here
    to anchor me.

    They say I’d waver
    in the slightest breeze.

    But that’s not true,
    just because I have no roots—
    doesn’t mean that I will falter,
    it just means
    life won’t come with ease.

    It just means
    this soil wasn’t right for me—

    and these people
    cannot speak for me,
    I write what I think
    in ink and let that
    carry what I mean.

    All that means—
    I won’t let this soil write for me.

    And I’ll deal with
    this stuck feeling,
    that I feel
    deep inside—
    in the only way
    I know how…

    I’ve got to write it out,
    can’t ignore it.

    Got to ride it out.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [The Needle Doesn’t Point North]
    “The Needle Doesn’t Point North” is a deeply personal free verse poem about displacement, identity, and spending a lifetime feeling emotionally disconnected from the place you were born while being drawn toward distant shores.

    [Weather in My Chest]
    “Weather in My Chest” is a free verse poem about emotional hyperawareness, social tension, and the quiet experience of carrying internal storms into rooms that react before a singl[e word is spoken.

    [Sound as a Vessel]
    “Sound as a Vessel” is a free verse poem about music as emotional architecture, exploring how international artists and soundscapes shaped identity, creativity, memory, and poetic voice.

    [Just Knowing You Has Been Enough]
    “Just Knowing You Has Been Enough” is a deeply vulnerable free verse poem about unspoken love, emotional fear, coded confessions, and the quiet truth of caring for someone without needing perfection in return.

    [The Streets I Walk When I Sleep]
    “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

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

  • Sound as a Vessel | A Poem About Music, Identity, and Creative Influence

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Music has always been more than background noise to me.

    It’s emotional architecture.

    There are songs that feel tied to specific versions of myself, specific periods of my life, specific emotional states I don’t know how to explain outside of sound.

    When I write, I usually start with music first. Not ideas. Not themes. Feeling.

    I sit in silence with headphones on and let the music guide me somewhere emotionally honest.

    This piece came from thinking about how deeply international my creative influences really are.

    A lot of the sounds that shaped me came from places I’ve never physically been: the Philippines, South Korea, Japan, Thailand.

    And over time, those influences stopped feeling external. They became part of my emotional language.

    Part of my rhythm. Part of my imagery. Part of how I understand myself creatively.

    Also: yes, “Morning Daughters” is intentional.

    It’s a poetic translation of the J-pop group Morning Musume because the translated phrasing fit the cadence of the piece better.

    That felt appropriate for a poem about translation, transformation, and reshaping influence into something personal.

    Because that’s ultimately what art is.

    Taking in sound, emotion, memory, culture— and turning it into your own voice.

    — Rowan Evans

    A poet wearing headphones sits surrounded by music, poetry pages, and dreamlike international city lights blending together.
    Some people travel by plane.
    I travel by sound.

    Sound as a Vessel
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I want to take a moment
    to talk about process—

    the way I’ll sit
    in silence,
    with nothing
    but the sound
    from my headphones.

    I sit, unmoved
    and let the music
    wrap around me.

    I let it guide my emotion
    and lead me where it may.

    This is when I reach
    across shores,
    ignoring borders—

    I reach for the sounds
    that soothe me,
    the sounds that move me
    and make me feel.

    I follow the notes
    like they’re breadcrumbs—

    back to the places
    my body has never lived
    but my heart remembers.

    This is how I travel—

    how I return
    to the versions of myself
    I haven’t met yet.

    I put my headphones on
    and drift away—

    through different worlds,
    from XG to Young Ji—
    MILLI and 4EVE.

    Then I drift back—
    MC Sniper, Outsider
    and Drunken Tiger.

    It’s like I walk
    through time,
    using sound
    as the vessel.

    Then I hit Japan,
    Morning Daughters
    surround me.
    Up next THE GAZETTE,
    then Hamasaki Ayumi. (Queen!)

    These are the sounds
    that shaped my DNA.

    Eminem lit the fire,
    Ez Mil made it brighter.

    I broke teeth
    on Lee Hyori. (Queen!)

    And I’ve expanded,
    put more colors
    on the canvas.

    More lines
    in my rhymes.

    BINI, SB
    19 and G22
    Hev Abi, Skusta Clee,
    Sarah Geronimo too—

    just to change the shape
    of the soundscape.

    I use sound like paint
    to make pictures,
    mix it with my emotions
    to find the perfect hue.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Just Knowing You Has Been Enough]
    “Just Knowing You Has Been Enough” is a deeply vulnerable free verse poem about unspoken love, emotional fear, coded confessions, and the quiet truth of caring for someone without needing perfection in return.

    [The Streets I Walk When I Sleep]
    “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

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

  • Just Knowing You Has Been Enough | A Poem About Fear, Love, and Emotional Connection

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some feelings become difficult to carry once they stop being hypothetical.

    You rehearse the words in your head, hide them in poems, disguise them as metaphors, bury them in “what ifs” and dream sequences—because saying them plainly makes them real.

    This piece came from that space between silence and confession.

    The strange place where fear and honesty start sounding alike.

    Not fear of loving someone.

    Fear of changing something that already matters deeply to you.

    Because sometimes the connection itself becomes so important that risking it feels terrifying.

    And sometimes love isn’t about perfection at all.

    Sometimes it’s just about seeing someone clearly—and caring anyway.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person sits beside a softly lit window at night holding an open notebook in a quiet reflective atmosphere.
    Some truths stay hidden in poems long before they’re ever spoken aloud.

    Just Knowing You Has Been Enough
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I went quiet,
    but you never left my mind.

    I was silent—
    I had a lot to say,
    just didn’t know how to say it.

    I was afraid.
    Scared out of my mind.

    Everything I could have said,
    it didn’t feel right.
    It felt too heavy—
    too hard to carry.

    I had to set it down
    for a while.

    I had to sit with it,
    the words only spoken
    in my dreams.

    Dreams where,
    you never have the chance
    to respond.

    It feels wrong.

    But I wouldn’t want to
    speak for you.

    It’s been this way
    for a while now.

    I get too in my head,
    too hung up on
    what I have said—

    and what I want to say.

    They aren’t always
    the same.

    I’ve dropped hints
    in coded lines,
    wrote the words plain
    in poems about dreams—
    knowing they’d get overlooked.

    They’re not serious.

    But know this,
    the words written here
    are me being honest:

    I’m scared.
    I’m terrified,
    it’s true—
    but I really do
    love you.

    There’s no other way
    to say it.

    Because what is love—
    if not bias?

    And I am biased.

    Now what’s bias,
    if not seeing perfection
    where there is none?

    Because I know you’re not perfect—
    I’ve seen the cracks.
    I’ve listened to your stories,
    heard the lore—

    but here’s the thing,
    it’s not about perfection
    or lack thereof—
    it never has been.

    It’s about connection.

    It always has been.
    That’s all I’ve ever wanted,
    whatever shape that takes—
    I can be happy.

    Just knowing you
    has been enough.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [The Streets I Sleep When I Walk]
    “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

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

  • The Streets I Walk When I Sleep | A Poem About Dreams, Love, and Emotional Longing

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I didn’t invent the conversation in this poem.

    That’s what makes this piece feel different to me.

    Usually when I write about dreams, I’m translating emotions into imagery after the fact—trying to capture the atmosphere more than the exact details. But this time, I woke up and realized I could still remember almost everything I said.

    Not perfectly. Dreams never survive intact.

    But the emotional core of it stayed with me long after I woke up.

    The strange thing about recurring dreams is how they stop feeling fictional after a while.

    The streets become familiar. The air feels recognizable. The people inside them start feeling emotionally real in a way that’s difficult to explain to someone else without sounding a little unhinged.

    And that’s part of what this piece explores.

    The disconnect between physical reality and emotional reality.

    I know I’ve never walked through Manila in waking life. I know I’ve never stood face to face with her like that. But emotionally?

    Some part of me feels like I already have.

    That’s the part that’s difficult to articulate.

    Especially because the dream wasn’t dramatic. There was no cinematic confession in the rain. No grand climax.

    It was quiet. Warm. Awkward. Honest.

    And maybe that’s why it affected me so much.

    Because the dream version of me said the things the waking version still struggles to say out loud.

    Not in metaphors. Not hidden inside symbolism.

    Just plainly.

    And then, right before I heard the answer—

    I woke up.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure stands on a rain-soaked city street at night beneath warm lights in a dreamlike urban atmosphere.
    Some places live in the heart long before the body ever arrives there.

    The Streets I Walk When I Sleep
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I had a dream last night—

    it’s a line, I’ve written
    a thousand times—

    and I’ll write it
    a thousand times more.

    Because dreams
    don’t feel like things
    that happened
    in my sleep.

    They feel like memories.

    There are times
    I have to remind myself—

    I’ve never been to Tokyo,
    I’ve never walked the streets
    of Manila or Seoul.

    I can’t explain it,
    definitely can’t name it—
    why these connections
    feel so strong.

    Yet, they are the streets
    I walk when I sleep
    and that’s still the same,
    it’s never changed—

    since I was fourteen.

    I’ve just been to
    Manila more lately.

    I had a dream last night…

    It was her and I,
    standing eye to eye—
    and I said everything
    I’ve been too scared to say.

    “I love you,”
    my voice came out
    softer than expected.

    “I always knew,”
    I continued.

    “Since the moment
    something in me changed,
    and you didn’t demand it.
    It just happened.”

    I took her hands
    in mine.

    Sun was gone,
    but you could still feel the heat—
    but the real killer?

    The way the humidity clung,
    making this moment
    sticky sweet.

    “I’ve known
    since the moment I met you
    you were special.”
    I said, my voice near a whisper.

    I felt the way you tensed up.
    You’re not used to this either.

    “It took me six days
    to realize things had changed.
    I wrote that first poem,
    and in my chest, I knew—

    I found home.”

    I felt the tremor in your breath,
    head tilting back
    and we made eye contact.

    Your mouth opened,
    you were about to speak—

    then I woke up.

    Journey in the Hexverse…

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

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

  • Separate Timelines | A Poem About Distance, Time Zones, and Unspoken Love

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve always been fascinated by the strange emotional weight of time zones.

    How someone can become such a consistent part of your thoughts that you start measuring your own day against theirs.

    Checking the clock. Wondering if they’re asleep. Wondering what their sky looks like while you’re staring at yours.

    At some point, distance stops feeling geographical and starts feeling temporal.

    That feeling became the foundation for this piece.

    The airport in the dream felt symbolic almost immediately while writing it—a place built entirely around arrivals, departures, waiting, and crossing paths for brief moments before separating again.

    And in the middle of that emptiness, there’s this presence that feels familiar before it’s visible.

    I think that’s what emotional connection can feel like sometimes.

    Not certainty. Not possession. Not even clarity.

    Just recognition.

    This poem also came from the tension between wanting to speak honestly and being afraid of what honesty might change.

    Because vulnerability always carries risk.

    Sometimes the fear isn’t rejection itself— it’s the possibility of losing a connection that already means something to you.

    So the poem lives in that suspended space: between dream and waking, between silence and confession, between leaving and returning.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person sits alone inside an empty airport terminal at night while distant runway lights glow outside.
    Some connections feel close even across separate timelines.

    Separate Timelines
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I had a dream last night—
    I sat alone in an empty airport.
    Not a soul. Not a sound.
    I was the only one around.

    It was just me
    as far as the eye could see.

    Yet, I heard the hum
    of jet engines still—

    Then there was
    the sound of movement,
    footsteps echoing in the distance.

    Eyes scanning—
    trying to locate the source.

    Slowly—

    I rise.

    Getting to my feet,
    I stumble
    trying to get myself steady.

    The footsteps grow clearer—

    slow, deliberate,
    like someone who already knew
    I’d be here.

    And in the stillness
    of this moment—

    silence folds in on itself,
    waiting for me
    to decide
    whether to run
    or stay.

    The footsteps stop.

    My breath catches,
    not from fear,
    but from the strange familiarity
    of a presence I can’t yet see.

    And my legs feel heavy—

    like they remember something
    my mind doesn’t.

    I can’t see you—
    but I feel your presence.

    It’s like you and I
    live on separate timelines,
    simultaneous
    but different—

    like we can only exist like this.

    Because—
    my day
    is your night,

    and your day
    is mine
    just the same.

    It might seem simple to some,
    might even sound a little dumb—

    to get caught up
    on things like that—

    but I’ve been stuck
    on her time
    since I put widget
    on my phone.

    Listen to me…

    there I go again,
    loose lips
    let truths slip—

    even when they’re
    better left unsaid.

    Not because I didn’t want to say it.

    I did.

    But I don’t know
    if the timing’s right,
    or how you feel—

    but I do know
    you’re worth the risk
    of my heart shattering,
    I just don’t know
    if I’m strong enough
    to handle a connection
    breaking.

    So I keep quiet—

    not because
    I don’t want to speak,
    but because
    I’m scared to.

    So I sink
    back into my seat—
    and I feel your presence fade.

    I don’t know if you left
    or if I’m awake—

    but I promise…

    I promise,
    I’ll be back.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life.

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

  • Memories From a Life Yet to Come | A Poem About Dreams, Longing, and Emotional Alignment

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory.

    Not literal memory—something stranger than that.

    A feeling. A pull. A version of yourself that already exists somewhere ahead of you, waiting to be caught up to.

    I’ve written a lot about displacement, longing, and feeling emotionally out of sync with the place I was born into. But this piece isn’t rooted in resentment. It’s quieter than that.

    This poem came from the feeling of seeing glimpses of alignment before you’ve fully arrived there yet.

    The strange comfort of closing your eyes and feeling more connected to yourself in dreams than you do while awake.

    Not because sleep is escape— but because sometimes dreams reveal the shape of what your heart has been reaching toward all along.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure stands at the edge of the ocean at twilight, looking toward distant city lights across the water as waves roll onto the shore.
    Some places feel familiar long before we ever arrive there.

    Memories From a Life Yet to Come
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I close my eyes—
    hear the crashing waves,
    taste the salt on my lips,
    feel the wind in my hair.

    I feel like I’m floating—
    even lying in bed.

    When I close my eyes—
    I travel in my head.

    It’s like I remember things
    I haven’t lived yet.
    Memories from a life
    yet to come.

    I see the life
    I want to lead,
    while I live the life
    I want to leave.

    Not because I hate it.

    I’m just misaligned.
    A little off-center,
    a little out of sync.

    It’s like I follow the waves,
    because I was never meant
    for this shore.

    Awake is the nightmare,
    asleep is when I open my eyes,
    and I can see the streets—

    where my life
    will finally align.

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

  • From Here, Not Of Here – A Poem About Cultural Disconnection and Belonging

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a difference between disliking a place… and feeling fundamentally misaligned with it.

    This piece isn’t about hatred. It isn’t about believing one country is morally superior to another.

    It’s about disconnect.

    About living somewhere your entire life while still feeling emotionally, culturally, and spiritually out of phase with it.

    I’ve written about this feeling for years now in different forms: through oceans, through maps, through eastward imagery, through sleep schedules that drift toward different time zones, through the idea of being “from” somewhere but not truly “of” it.

    And the older I get, the more I realize this feeling was never temporary.

    It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t escapism.

    It was direction.

    Some people spend their whole lives trying to become rooted where they were planted.

    But some of us are shaped by movement.

    Some of us were always meant to leave.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing alone on an American street feeling disconnected from their surroundings
    Some people are born where they are meant to be. Others are meant to journey beyond it.

    From Here, Not Of Here
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stood still—
    between existing
    and not.

    I stood still—
    on the streets
    I’ve always walked.

    Talking to the same people
    I’ve always talked to.

    I stood still—
    that’s hard for someone like me.

    I was born to flee,
    not to run—
    nor escape,
    but to leave behind
    these rigid states.

    I was destined—
    to map my own fate,
    to tell my own story.

    Since I was born
    every step away from,
    has been a step toward—

    at fourteen,
    I started running.
    Picking up speed—

    even though the roads
    have been long,
    I know the path
    I’m on isn’t wrong.

    But every morning,
    I wake up at nine AM—
    I know my sleep schedule
    shifted again,
    further from where
    I want to be.

    So I mutter to myself:

    Seryoso ka ba, pero…

    I’m tired.

    I’m tired of fighting
    a current never meant for me—

    tired of existing in a place
    that’s supposed to be home,
    but I feel foreign—

    like this is the land
    I’m from—
    but not the land
    I’m of—

    I was meant
    for more,
    somewhere far
    beyond these shores.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Out of Sync]
    A reflective free verse poem about emotional displacement, shifting sleep cycles, and feeling spiritually drawn toward another side of the world.

    [Roles Assigned]
    A quiet exploration of modern life, invisible burdens, and the roles people inherit before they ever choose who they are.

    [Global Takeover]
    What if home isn’t a place—but something you build from the music you love? Global Takeover blends sound, culture, and identity into one borderless space.

    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]

  • Altars and Roses – A Gothic Poem About Poetry, Devotion, and Emotional Architecture

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece started as me messing around while listening to Ez Mil.

    At first, I was just playing with rhyme patterns and cadence—thinking about internal rhyme, implied rhyme, layered phrasing, all the little mechanics that make writing feel musical.

    But somewhere in the middle, it shifted.

    Because the more I write, the more I realize my poetry isn’t just expression anymore. It’s architecture.

    I’ve built recurring symbols, recurring imagery, recurring emotional spaces. Ravens. Cathedrals. Ghosts. Roses. Fire. Silence.

    Over time, they stopped feeling like random aesthetics and started feeling like a language of their own.

    And beneath all the gothic imagery and dramatic metaphors, there’s something surprisingly simple holding it together:

    care.

    Not grand gestures. Not fantasy.

    Just wanting to make someone’s day softer in small ways.

    This piece became about both sides of that: the mythic voice, and the human one underneath it.

    — Rowan Evans

    Gothic writing desk with roses, candles, ravens, and handwritten poetry
    Beneath every cathedral of metaphor, there is still a human hand reaching gently toward someone else.

    Altars and Roses
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    What I do
    with a pen is sick—

    the way I
    weave rhymes
    inside lines,
    with implied rhymes,
    inside rhymes.

    And don’t get me started
    on the imagery—

    I took Poe’s ravens
    and made them
    a centerpiece.

    I’ve built—
    cathedrals in my rhymes,
    altars to devotion,
    worship in reverence.

    I’ve sculpted
    roses from the ruin—

    I’ve painted pictures
    with words—
    a real gothic Bob Ross.

    I’ve talked to my grave
    in mausoleums—
    with ravens as my witness.

    I’ve sat with my silence
    and I’ve spoken with ghosts
    not my own.

    I carry the weight
    of everyone I’ve witnessed.

    And to the certain someone
    that occupies my mind—

    you still hold a special place.

    Even when my mind
    closes me off—
    it’s you
    that keeps me holding on.

    I’d open the fan for you—
    if you asked me to—

    because I want to do the little things
    that’ll make you smile.

    No questions asked.
    No sweat off my back—

    I’d do it.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Finish What You Started]
    A dark introspective poem about confronting the past, carrying old versions of yourself, and realizing that the only way forward is through the fire.

    [The Shadow and the Spark]
    A psychologically charged free verse poem using Mortal Kombat imagery to explore anxiety, depression, identity, and the realization that survival matters more than victory.

    [Out of Sync]
    A reflective free verse poem about emotional displacement, shifting sleep cycles, and feeling spiritually drawn toward another side of the world.

    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]