Some poems arrive carrying trauma, existential questions, complicated metaphors, and enough symbolism to fill a cathedral.
This one showed up carrying a fucking pun.
Hedge Funds (Not My Fun) is deliberately stupid. I wanted to play with sound, names, word associations, and the increasingly questionable logic of a joke that refuses to die. Sometimes the page doesn’t need another emotional excavation—it just needs to have a little fun.
So yes, this is a poem about hedge funds.
No, I don’t actually have any.
And apparently, neither does my fun.
— Rowan Evans
The hedge has funds. The funds aren’t mine. Therefore, the fun remains tragically unfunded.
Hedge Funds (Not My Fun) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I think I’m so fucking funny—
I’ll make a Big Pun,
while lookin’ like a Pimp
C—but you can’t see me,
like my name is John
and my time is now—
or at least, I hope it is.
Because I’m trying to get my funds up,
yeah, I want to get my fun up—
so I stack my funds
as high as my hedges—
get it?
Hedge Fund.
That means the money isn’t mine—
so I’m stacking some funds high,
they’re just not my funds, and—
because they’re not my funds,
they do not fund my fun, man.
Sometimes the loudest hater in the room is the one you brought with you.
Walk-A-Block in Flames started with the idea of imaginary critics—the voices that somehow manage to find fault with everything you do, even when nobody else is actually saying a damn thing. Naturally, my brain decided the appropriate response was to turn that internal conflict into a ridiculous walk around the block, throw in some wordplay, and see how many times I could make the joke work before the poem eventually turned the joke back on me.
Because beneath all the flames, bravado, and fake enemies, there’s a much simpler realization:
Sometimes the person I’m arguing with is me.
And honestly?
That’s probably the funniest part.
— Rowan Evans
Plot twist: the haters were imaginary, and unfortunately, they had my voice.
Walk-A-Block in Flames Poetry by Rowan Evans
They tell me,
these imaginary haters,
that I’ve fuckin’ created—
they live inside my head,
feeding on my self-doubt—
obsessed with burning the self-down.
They make me take a walk,
a walk around a block
and it’s fucking hot—
I guess you could say,
these imaginary haters made me,
Waka Flocka Flame.
Wait—
I meant to say—
these haters made me
Walk-A-Block In Flames.
Honestly though,
I don’t know
what the fuck
they hate me for—
Is it because my wrist froze?
Nope, I’m broke—
Because I’m the best to ever do it?
Nope, that’s a joke—
Is it because they say
the things I think about me?
Couldn’t be—
because I think I’m great,
and these haters are fake.
I mean literally fake,
figments—
they don’t exist,
it’s just me in this bitch.
Sometimes “I don’t give a fuck” isn’t really apathy. Sometimes it’s exhaustion, overextension, or finally realizing that not everything deserves a piece of you.
The Fucks I Give takes that idea and turns it into a ridiculous little accounting problem. If I’ve been handing out fucks like they’re an unlimited resource, eventually I’m going to have to audit the books, collect the outstanding balance, and start charging interest.
Underneath the jokes and profanity is something I’m actually pretty serious about: learning to be selective with what gets my attention, my energy, my emotions, and my time.
Because giving a fuck can be an act of love.
So can taking your fucks back.
— Rowan Evans
Apparently, my fucks weren’t free. I’m just finally collecting the outstanding balance.
The Fucks I Give Poetry by Rowan Evans
They said I’m too apathetic,
actin’ like nothing matters,
and it’s pathetic—
they want me to give a fuck,
but shit, I misplaced my bag of fucks—
so I’ve got no fucks to give.
Yeah, I’ll go through
and take all my fucks back—
I’ll walk right up and knock, like—
I’m here to collect my fucks,
and extra fucks too—
it’s a fucking tax,
and there is interest, dude.
You think fucks are endless.
No, I’ve got to be pickier—
because for a minute there,
it was—
fuck everything
and that’s probably
what they’re angry for.
It was fuck this and fuck that—
I was running out of fucks fast.
This one arrived with a bunch of fictional characters, a handful of terrible puns, and apparently no intention of behaving itself.
So, before you read too seriously into it, consider this your invitation to just have fun with it. It’s a little chaotic, a little nerdy, and very much written with a grin behind the pen.
Welcome to the nonsense.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the hero’s journey is just an excuse to make terrible puns.
Why So Serious? Poetry by Rowan Evans
I must be Aladdin—
because my Jasmine
is so Jafar away.
Three wishes from Genie
trying to get to her,
you say that’s a waste—
but what Elsa am I to do?
I am on the move,
magic carpet ride—
and I can’t let it go,
I’m already Anna the way.
I guess you can say
this is my hero’s journey—
head in the clouds,
my feet not on the ground—
I had a joke to put here,
but it would Neverland—
I hope I stay young forever,
like Peter Pan…
I’m a Skywalker, like Luke—
I’m a Leia down the truth,
I’m not a rapper, my pen is—
the page is my booth.
When I step in, glasses come off—
Clark Kent is gone, it’s Superman to you.
There are poems where I sit down with a very serious idea and carefully shape every word.
This isn’t one of those poems.
Draggin’ (Ignis) is me letting the pen run loose, throwing references at the page, flexing a little, and then immediately making fun of myself for doing it. It’s playful bravado with a gothic streak, a little battle-rap energy, and absolutely no intention of pretending I’m cooler than I am.
Twenty-three years of writing will do strange things to a poet.
Apparently, it makes them compare themselves to dragons, superheroes, and Pokémon-level fire hazards.
Enjoy the chaos.
— Rowan Evans
Twenty-three years of writing and this is what the pen decided to do with all that experience.
Draggin’ (Ignis) Poetry by Rowan Evans
Twenty-three years, I’ve been doing this
with craft in my veins and trauma in my brain—
I’ve really been through some shit.
Maybe that’s why I write so ruthless—
if I spit a diss, it’d be ignis—I’d be draggin’ you,
but I’m nice, so I’m a dragon like Toothless.
This is stupid, silly, dumb—
I can’t take me serious, and this is how come.
Yeah, these might be jokes—
but I’m cold, Bobby Drake,
so shut your mouth
before I turn your girl into a—
Dragon Rider…
That kind of killed the rhyme,
that’s fine—
here’s a few more lines…
I’m too quick-witted—
pen faster than Flash,
I’m too quick wit’ it
when I write lines
to silence critics.
I’ve been writing for years,
double digits—
two followed by the number
that comes next—
I’m not even trying to flex,
this is just me writing facts.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Behind These Bars (Idol Chatter)] A playful battle-poetry piece where confidence, wordplay, pop-culture references, and a sharp pen collide. Behind These Bars (Idol Chatter) turns verbal sparring into a ridiculous little poetry showdown.
[Kaio-ken/Zenkai] Two Dragon Ball-inspired battle poems about creative power, survival, and coming back stronger. Kaio-ken with a Pen brings the attack, while Zenkai (Stronger Now) delivers the aftermath: push me to the edge, and I’ll return stronger than before.
[Don’t Push Me] A playful battle-poetry piece about turning insults into punchlines, standing your ground, and refusing to be intimidated. Don’t Push Me mixes swagger, humor, rhyme, and Rowan Evans’ signature self-aware interruptions.
[B.S.T.F.U.] A playful battle-poetry exercise packed with insults, internal rhymes, punchlines, wordplay, and literary swagger. B.S.T.F.U. is Rowan Evans flexing the verbal muscles—not calling out anyone in particular.
Give me something to work with, and I’ll turn it into a line. A joke. A rhyme. A little trouble.
That’s the game.
— Rowan Evans
Give me something to work with. I’ll give you a poem.
Give Me (I’ll Give) Poetry by Rowan Evans
Give me a beat,
I’ll give you a bar.
Give me a graveyard,
I’ll give you a ghost.
Give me a lyric,
I’ll give you a joke.
Give me a drink,
I’ll give you a toast.
You don’t have to say it—
I know, I write better than most.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Nobody² (No Body)] A minimalist poem playing with the double meaning of “nobody”—exploring loneliness, isolation, absence, and the feeling of becoming a ghost within your own life.
[Rose & Ruin] Two minimalist poems exploring the opposing forces within creativity: the thoughts we cultivate into something beautiful and the darker thoughts we transform before they have a chance to decay.
Sometimes I sit down with a pen and decide I’m going to behave.
That usually lasts about three lines.
Behind These Bars (Idol Chatter) is one of those pieces where the writing gets a little cocky, the jokes start stacking up, and the references begin sneaking through the cracks. It’s playful, competitive, and intentionally ridiculous in places.
So consider this a little verbal sparring session.
No hard feelings.
Probably.
— Rowan Evans
The meet-and-greet is over. The pen has entered the battle.
Behind These Bars (Idol Chatter) Poetry by Rowan Evans
Oh, look at you— look what you can do with a pen—it’s cute, but you can’t win— yet you think you can?
Damn, man— what was your plan? How were you going to get the best of me?
Get in line— get ready for the meet and greet, I’ll sign your autograph, cause I—
I know I’m your Idol, American, shape the ink like clay, ’til it’s achin’— I’m Stronger now, and not Because Of You, so listen quick, remember bitch, you’ll want to remember where you were at during A Moment Like This—
that was three straight references to Clarkson, Kelly— sit down, talk show, telly. It’s just jokes bitch, I can get silly— that’s just how the mind Behind These Hazel Eyes works—
jerks.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Conductor] A dark, intimate poem about the strange power words can have over the reader—where rhythm, rhyme, and line breaks become instruments capable of reaching beyond the page.
[Kaio-ken/Zenkai] Two Dragon Ball-inspired battle poems about creative power, survival, and coming back stronger. Kaio-ken with a Pen brings the attack, while Zenkai (Stronger Now) delivers the aftermath: push me to the edge, and I’ll return stronger than before.
[Don’t Push Me] A playful battle-poetry piece about turning insults into punchlines, standing your ground, and refusing to be intimidated. Don’t Push Me mixes swagger, humor, rhyme, and Rowan Evans’ signature self-aware interruptions.
[B.S.T.F.U.] A playful battle-poetry exercise packed with insults, internal rhymes, punchlines, wordplay, and literary swagger. B.S.T.F.U. is Rowan Evans flexing the verbal muscles—not calling out anyone in particular.
Comic Book Confidence is me asking a very important question:
What if I had superhero confidence without actually having superhero powers?
The answer, apparently, is several increasingly terrible decisions.
I wanted to play with the mythology of comic-book heroes—the wall-crawling, flying, super-speed, impossible confidence—and translate that into a deliberately ridiculous poetic narrative. Every time the speaker decides they must have discovered a new power, reality immediately provides a correction.
That’s what makes the piece fun for me. It’s not really about superheroes; it’s about confidence outrunning competence.
And maybe that’s something worth laughing at in ourselves sometimes. We imagine ourselves as Spider-Man, Superman, The Flash, Batman—and then gravity reminds us that we’re still just people.
So this is Battle Rowan in a different form:
No superpowers. No safety net. Just confidence, bad decisions, and a pen.
— Rowan Evans
Turns out confidence is a superpower. Unfortunately, gravity isn’t impressed.
Comic Book Confidence Poetry by Rowan Evans
Put glue on my hands,
and try to climb the walls—
yeah, tried to Spider-Man it.
Fell, got hurt, it was a curse—
goddamnit!
Okay, so that’s not the power I got
and honestly, I’m shocked—
Maybe I can fly? Maybe I’ll try,
sheet tied and I climbed, high—
from this vantage point I could see,
everyone looking like ants to me.
Took one step then up, up and away.
I jumped toward the summit—I Superman’d it.
For a second, thought I made it—
but really, I just—plummet.
Yes, there I was hurtling—
quick as shit toward the Earth,
oh man, this is gonna hurt,
just as soon as I hit the dirt.
Oof, cough, wheeze—
that was me trying to breathe.
I had hit chest first,
knocked the air out of me—
I struggled to my feet,
stumbling into a jog—
like I had somewhere to be,
and someone to meet—
but I just had to run it off,
Barry Allen, vibrating through a wall—
or nah—
smashed my head, I’m wobblin’—
vision blurred, words slurred,
delusion settin’ in—now I think I’m Batman
and I’m Robin.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Kaio-ken with a Pen/Zenkai] Two Dragon Ball-inspired battle poems about creative power, survival, and coming back stronger. Kaio-ken with a Pen brings the attack, while Zenkai (Stronger Now) delivers the aftermath: push me to the edge, and I’ll return stronger than before.
[The Inkbender] What if poetry was another form of bending? The Inkbender transforms the philosophies of Avatar: The Last Airbender into a celebration of language, creativity, rage, healing, and the power of the written word.
Unfortunately for that poet, Tony has discovered pasta.
Impasta (A Diss in Pasta Form) is exactly what it sounds like: a diss poem written almost entirely through pasta-related wordplay. Spaghetti becomes “impasta.” Fettuccine becomes “alfredo.” Macaroni becomes a metaphor for having no backbone. Ravioli becomes something that folds under pressure.
And Tony is absolutely convinced this is devastating.
That is what makes Tony Stanza fun.
He isn’t trying to be subtle. He isn’t trying to sound sophisticated. He is a fictional poet who has apparently decided that every pasta dish is an opportunity for literary violence.
But underneath the ridiculousness, there is a real little diss hiding in here.
The target isn’t merely being called a bad poet. They’re being accused of being derivative, fragile, empty, and dependent on other people’s work. The pasta metaphors are ridiculous, but the criticism itself is surprisingly straightforward:
Your work isn’t yours.
Your confidence doesn’t survive pressure.
And underneath all that presentation, there’s nothing there.
Of course, Tony couldn’t possibly just say that.
He had to make it about spaghetti.
This is also another piece in the growing mythology of Tony Stanza—the “greatest poet you’ve never heard of,” a poet whose signature “Ayo…” apparently signals that something deeply unserious is about to happen.
If I write anything pasta-related from this point forward, Tony Stanza did it.
I don’t make the rules.
Tony does.
— Rowan Evans
Ayo… Tony Stanza has entered the kitchen. And somebody’s about to get impasta’d. 🍝
Impasta (A Diss in Pasta Form) Poetry by Tony Stanza
Ayo…
I call you spaghetti— because you’re just an impasta. (Imposter.) Your rhymes are cheesy. Parmesan.
All these suckers fettucine. They alfredo. (afraid though.) Yeah, these bitches is macaroni. All elbows. No backbone.
They talk a lot a ravioli— but fold when pressure hits, seam splits— and you realize they were full of nothing, no substance.
You thought you were angel hair, capellini, the chosen one—divinity with a pen. But you’re just thin-skinned, overcooked, fragile to the core.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Lost in the Sauce] A playful heartbreak poem where sandwiches, ketchup, mustard, rye, lettuce, and sourdough become metaphors for emotional confusion. Beneath the food puns is a speaker trying to understand how everything went from “we’re okay” to suddenly feeling cold.
And sometimes my brain apparently looks at a sandwich and says, yes, this is how we’re processing emotional confusion today.
Lost in the Sauce is a deliberately playful poem built around food-related wordplay, particularly the language of sandwiches, condiments, bread, and the wonderfully terrible possibilities hidden inside them.
The jokes are intentionally stupid.
That is part of the point.
“Bread” becomes “rye.” “Ketchup” becomes “catch up.” “Mustard” becomes “must’ve.” “Sourdough” becomes an emotional description. Even “lettuce meat in the middle” is doing multiple jobs at once.
But beneath all of that nonsense is something much more familiar: the confusion of being told that everything is okay while someone’s behavior feels completely different.
The speaker is trying to understand the contradiction.
They were told the relationship was fine.
They were told the other person was happy.
So why does everything suddenly feel cold?
Why does affection feel sour?
Why does the speaker feel trapped in place, struggling to catch up to something they don’t fully understand?
The ridiculous wordplay gives me permission to approach that emotional confusion without making the poem overly solemn.
I’ve been rediscovering how much I enjoy treating language like a playground—taking ordinary words, twisting them until they become something else, and seeing how far I can push a joke before the emotional meaning underneath it starts showing through.
So yes, this poem is about sandwiches.
Sort of.
Mostly, it’s about being lost in the sauce when the person you’re trying to understand has already changed the recipe.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes you don’t fall apart. Sometimes you just get lost in the sauce. 🥪
Lost in the Sauce Poetry by Rowan Evans
You sandwiched me in
with an all-tomato—
love you or leave,
but I couldn’t do it clean—
I was lost in the sauce,
begging lettuce
meat in the middle.
You said, “you lie.”
I said, “Nah, you rye.”
But do you know why?
I was stuck in place,
you wouldn’t wait—
I was struggling
to ketchup.
I thought you
mustard—
how could you not?
People talk.
Look—
I’m sorry.
I don’t want to fight.
But, you said—
you were happy.
We were okay.
So why you so cold,
why you actin’ sourdough?
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Did You Really Think This Was About Trees?] A playful love poem disguised as a forest of terrible tree puns. Beneath the birch, oak, cedar, palms, lumber, and absurdist wordplay is a poem about devotion, loyalty, laughter, and building a life with someone you love.
[Blended Hardware] A playful, absurdist poem where step-ladders, garden hoses, Star Wars, teenage memories, Gothic imagery, and the poet’s own self-interrupting commentary collide. Blended Hardware is a celebration of letting language wander.
