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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Freedom

  • Hell’s Protégé & Caged Birds Don’t Bow | Rowan Evans – Poems of Power, Darkness & Freedom

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    These two pieces, Hell’s Protégé and Caged Birds Don’t Bow, are written in the spirit of rebellion, devotion, and unapologetic truth. One explores the infernal thrill of claiming your power and identity in a world that misunderstands darkness; the other is a diss-track poem, a call-out to toxic control, and a celebration of freedom.

    I write for those unafraid of shadows, for those who embrace the fire within, and for the ones who refuse to bow to cages—be they imposed by others or by fear itself. Here, you will find blades sharpened with wit, hearts that bleed for the ones they love, and voices that roar even when silenced.

    These poems are a reflection of my own devotion, my own fire, and a reminder: I was born in the dark, I did not stumble into it—and neither should you.

    — Rowan Evans

    “Dark gothic figure with horns on a throne, surrounded by flames and a rising flock of black birds, representing power, rebellion, and freedom.”
    “Hell’s Protégé meets Caged Birds Don’t Bow — a twin exploration of power, rebellion, and the beauty of unapologetic truth.”

    Hell’s Protégé
    (written December 6th, 2024)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    They call me the evil one—horns on my dome,
    Devils on my shoulders, calling Hell my home.
    Chasing dreams he promised in infernal schemes,
    Under the Morningstar’s light, unraveling at the seams.

    The noose hangs loose for her, Lucifer’s muse,
    Pen in my fist, spitting truth like molten fuse.
    Aspiring to be your poetic satanic leader,
    Words sharp as blades, cutting deeper and deeper.

    Kool-Aid in red Solo cups, toasts raised to sin,
    Pages pinned to the corkboard—where do I begin?
    It’s a crime scene in rhyme scheme, a fevered conspiracy,
    Lines so wicked, even Hell envies me.

    I’m Satan’s next of kin, heir to his throne,
    Sitting beside him, a kingdom of fire my own.
    Next in line, when his time is done,
    Hell’s mini-me, wielding the infernal tongue.

    Feel the brimstone burn with every word I spit,
    A pyroclastic flow of raw, unholy grit.
    You smell the sulfur, you hear the chains rattle,
    Every verse a battlefield, every line a battle.

    The taste of ashes lingers, bitter and raw,
    The ink on my skin reads “Hell’s Final Law.”
    The roar of the damned is my symphony of screams,
    I’m the nightmare invading your holy dreams.

    But don’t confuse the darkness for lack of art,
    Every rhyme a blade, cutting straight to the heart.
    You feel the heat, see the flames dance and twirl,
    I’m not here to save, just to own this world.

    So call me what you want—devil, poet, deceiver,
    But bow when you hear me, your cult leader.
    The crown is mine, infernal and divine,
    Hell’s next ruler, writing my diabolic design.

    Caged Birds Don’t Bow
    (Written December 7th, 2024)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Man, listen up, you insecure little prince,
    Crown crooked, ego bloated, ever since
    You figured control is how you earn love,
    But all you’re doing is clipping wings of a dove.

    “You can’t wear that,” says the self-proclaimed king,
    But real royalty? They let their queen’s voice sing.
    Dictating her diet like you’re running a show,
    But her worth ain’t a number, you shallow John Doe.

    You’re the puppet master pulling her strings,
    But your hands? Dirty from the lies that you bring.
    Gaslight ignited, making her doubt her truth,
    While you bask in the glow of your toxic roots.

    “You’re mine,” you declare, but you’re just a fraud,
    Trying to play God with her life as your facade.
    Your confidence is counterfeit, stitched from fear,
    You ain’t strong, bro, you’re just loud and unclear.

    She’s not your trophy, not your possession,
    Not a canvas for your insecurities’ confession.
    Her wardrobe’s not a leash, her smile ain’t your prize,
    And her spirit? You’ll never own what’s divine.

    So take your rules, your claws, your chains,
    And shove them back into your hollow brain.
    Her love ain’t a cage, it’s a free flight,
    But you’d rather dim her than let her light ignite.

    She deserves better, someone who sees,
    Her value unmeasured, like the oceans and seas.
    But you? You’re just a storm cloud trying to rain,
    On a rainbow she’s painted, escaping your pain.

    So step back, dude, watch her rise,
    You’ll never own the fire burning in her eyes.
    Your world crumbles as her strength takes wing,
    Because caged birds don’t bow—they sing.

    If these pieces resonated with you and you’d like to explore more of my work, you can find it in The Library of Ashes — thank you, salamat po.

  • Escape & Longing: Tropical Dreams and Distant Shores – Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Double-Feature Intro

    Sometimes the world feels too heavy to bear, and the soul begins to dream of places it has never touched. Two paths emerge—one of quiet surrender, the other of yearning flight. These pieces explore that journey: the weight of what we leave behind, and the promise of somewhere beyond the horizon.

    Figure standing on a tropical shore at sunset, gazing toward distant islands, representing longing and the desire to escape.
    Longing for distant shores, finding peace beyond what I’ve known.

    Escape Route
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I want to step off this soil,
    feel its weight fade from my bones,
    like a chain I never asked for,
    a history I never owned.

    I long for skies not heavy with judgment,
    for oceans that don’t pull me under,
    to breathe air not tainted with promises
    that leave the soul shattered,
    like glass beneath tired feet.

    I would trade the land of endless noise,
    the echoes of hollow dreams,
    for silence—
    for the quiet of somewhere far,
    where the world doesn’t scream
    but whispers,
    and I can finally exhale.

    Somewhere else,
    where home isn’t built on brokenness,
    where freedom isn’t borrowed
    but earned.

    Tropical Longing
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I wake up each day,
    mind focused on the journey ahead—
    I’m putting plans in motion,
    to cross oceans,
    to leave behind this land of plenty,
    where many have none.
    I long for the land
    of white sand beaches and palm trees,
    I long for a tropical sun.

    Life upon a different shore,
    it’s calling me.
    And I think about it longingly.
    Get me out of here,
    get me to where my heart feels at peace.
    Instead of here,
    where I feel like I’m pulling myself in two,
    stretched thin between what is and what could be—
    like waves crashing against jagged rocks,
    each one breaking off a piece of me.

    The Philippines—
    a dream painted in shades of emerald and gold,
    the promise of solace in the whisper of the sea.
    But here, the air is heavy,
    clouds hang low with burdens of the past,
    while I yearn for a sky unshackled,
    where the horizon stretches far beyond
    the limits of what I know.

    Palm trees sway like dancers,
    and the sun burns bright,
    calling me to walk barefoot,
    where my soul can feel the sand,
    and my heart can finally breathe.
    But for now,
    I’m tethered to this place,
    this world where the weight is felt
    with every step I take.

    Still, I hold onto the dream,
    the image of an island beyond the mist—
    where peace resides,
    and I can shed the pull of this dual life,
    and rest beneath the warmth of the tropical sky.

    Double-Feature Outro

    And so we leave, if only in words—for a moment, we escape the weight of the world. We walk toward distant shores, toward air untainted and skies unbound, carrying pieces of ourselves we thought were lost. Between the tethered and the free, we find the space to breathe, to dream, to simply be.

    Looking for more of my poetry? The Library of Ashes