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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: gothic poetry

  • Funeral for a Thirty-Six-Year-Old | A Gothic Birthday Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is a birthday rite, not a reckoning.

    I’ve always treated birthdays less like milestones and more like ceremonial thresholds—moments to shed a skin, laugh at the ghosts behind me, and step forward with intention. Funeral for a Thirty-Six-Year-Old isn’t about mourning age; it’s about staging its death so something sharper, freer, and more self-aware can take its place.

    Thirty-six feels less like getting older and more like arriving. I’m no longer interested in quiet gratitude or graceful humility—I wanted pageantry, drama, and a little irreverence. This piece is me honoring survival with style, embracing the absurdity of time, and celebrating the fact that I’m still here, still dangerous, still writing.

    If this is a funeral, it’s one where the guest of honor very much refuses to stay dead.

    A gothic figure rising from a velvet coffin in a moonlit mausoleum, symbolizing a theatrical celebration of turning thirty-six.
    Thirty-six isn’t an ending—it’s a resurrection with better lighting.

    Funeral for a Thirty-Six-Year-Old
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I rise from my velvet coffin,
    for birthdays are sacred rituals of vanity,
    thirty-six too perfect for a quiet exit.

    Cobwebs kiss my ankles
    as I stride the mausoleum of my life,
    counting skeletons I’ve danced with
    and candles I’ve lit in the name of style.

    The moon winks at me through shattered panes,
    celestial bodies admire
    a drama queen in full bloom—
    not wilted, not weary, theatrically immortal.

    I sip absinthe from a skull-shaped chalice,
    grinning at the reaper waiting impatiently,
    his scythe tapping to the rhythm of my heartbeat—
    shrug. He’s never been my type.

    Mirrors whisper secrets of my youthful decay,
    I laugh—lines are suggestions,
    wrinkles invitations to flair,
    every grey hair a medal for surviving
    without losing my mind… entirely.

    Birthday cake, molten lava,
    frosted with sarcasm, glittering regrets.
    I devour it with a ceremonial fork,
    toasting myself—
    who else deserves this gothic pageantry?

    The clock ticks, and I bow to time,
    not in surrender, but in acknowledgment:
    I am older, wiser, and infinitely more unhinged.
    let the world tremble at my theatricality—
    I have arrived.

    Candles gutter. Shadows shiver.
    In the mirror’s reflection, I wink—
    thirty-six has never looked this dangerous,
    this decadent, this deliciously insane.

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

  • Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes) – A Poem About Turning Pain Into Power

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems are confessions.
    Some are exorcisms.

    This one is alchemy.

    Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes) came from that familiar edge—when the weight presses in, when the mind contracts, when the darkness feels like it might finally win. But instead of letting it consume me, I let it become something. I let it turn into ink.

    This poem is about that moment of reclamation.
    About taking what hurts and making it mine.
    About refusing to be only what the darkness names me.

    If you’ve ever felt yourself folding inward—this is for you.
    If you’ve ever made art out of survival—this is yours too.

    A shadowed poet with glowing eyes as black ink pours from their hands, transforming into swirling symbols of power in a dark, gothic setting.
    Turning darkness into language. Pain into power. Ink into alchemy.

    Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I am all sixes when its needed,
    this darkness,
    your hatred feeds it.

    I can feel it—
    crawling up my spine,
    that creeping feeling.
    It twists around my mind,
    contracting.

    I can feel it squeeze,
    as I fall to knees.

    My eyes flicker and flash,
    fade to black—
    as you see
    my face distort.
    Twisted reflection.
    Personified depression.

    Can you see—
    as I begin to bleed ink?
    It pours from me,
    covering fingers,
    hands and arms.

    It twists,
    never relents.

    …

    I’m a motherfucking
    alchemist,
    the way I take my pain
    and change it.
    I’ll write like hell,
    to subtly rearrange it.

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

  • Pyres of the Patriarchy: A Witch’s Reclamation of Fire and Power

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Pyres of the Patriarchy is a ritual of words, fire, and defiance. It honors those who resisted, those who were silenced, and those who still carry the courage of rebellion in their veins. Salem’s shadows and flickering flames become a lens to see the power, rage, and liberation in claiming what the world tried to take away. This poem is both homage and invocation—a call to rise, to burn away chains, and to celebrate the sacred fire that refuses to be tamed.

    — Rowan Evans

    Illustration of witches rising from burning pyres under a moonlit sky, symbolizing feminist rebellion and sacred fire.
    Not for vengeance — for devotion.

    Pyres of the Patriarchy
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    In Salem’s darkened heart, the night exhales,
    and shadows twist like ink in candlelight.
    Whispers coil around bones,
    around lungs, around my pulse—
    curses pressed to lips
    that tremble with memory and rage.

    The witches rise.
    Not silent. Not broken.
    Their eyes burn with histories
    too long ignored.
    Their hands trace the edges of power
    that was stolen,
    that was denied,
    that we take back
    with every heartbeat, every breath.

    The pyres flare,
    and the chains writhe in their heat.
    Patriarchy bends, fractures, collapses,
    its ash swirling into moonlight,
    into the smoke of everything they told us
    we could never be.

    No more the quiet screams
    that haunted hallways
    we were told to shrink inside.
    No more the weight of “never enough.”
    We kneel in fire.
    We rise in flame.
    We are the storm they feared
    and the hymn they could not silence.

    From shackled wrists,
    from charred stakes,
    from every whispered lie,
    we rise.
    We rise,
    and the night bends with us,
    carries our laughter
    through every darkened room,
    through every shadow left unclaimed.

    I feel it in my chest—
    their power in me,
    their defiance in my hands.
    The fortress of the old world trembles,
    crumbles,
    and we dance
    in the embers of what they called impossible.

    A new dawn blooms in Salem’s bones.
    The pyres burn bright,
    not for vengeance,
    but for devotion:
    to our shadows,
    to our fire,
    to the witches we always were
    and always will be.

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

  • Gothic Christmas – A Neo-Gothic Confessional Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem was born from the quiet moments between winter’s chill and candlelight, where shadows linger and hearts search for warmth. Gothic Christmas is my meditation on light and darkness coexisting—how even in cold, silent streets, a flicker of hope can endure. It is for those who find beauty in the night, who embrace the melancholic as much as the joyous, and who believe that love and light can exist even in the most shadowed corners.

    Lone figure kneeling by a candle on a snowy gothic street at night, with spires and shadows in the background.
    A flicker of hope shines in the gothic winter night.

    Gothic Christmas
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    In the heart of winter’s embrace, 
    Where shadows linger in every space, 
    A Christmas tale unfolds tonight, 
    In the realm of darkness, devoid of light.

    The moon, a pale and distant gleam, 
    Casts shadows on the icy stream. 
    A lone figure roams the streets, 
    Where silence reigns and coldness meets.

    Gothic spires against the sky, 
    Reach for heaven, where angels fly. 
    But in these streets, no joyous cheer, 
    Only whispers of a darker fear.

    Beneath the eaves of ancient stone, 
    The windswept trees their branches moan. 
    Through cobbled lanes and narrow ways, 
    A figure in the darkness strays.

    No merry carols fill the air, 
    No laughter heard, no spirit rare. 
    Only the echo of footsteps light, 
    Through the haunted, silent night.

    But in a corner, dim and cold, 
    A flicker of candle, ancient and old. 
    A figure kneels in silent prayer, 
    Amidst the shadows, deep despair.

    For Christmas here is not the same, 
    In this gothic land of ancient fame. 
    But in the heart, a flicker, too, 
    A flame of hope, both old and new.

    For in the darkness, cold and stark, 
    There beats a heart, a tiny spark. 
    A whisper soft, a promise true, 
    Of light and love, for me and you.

    So in this gothic Christmas night, 
    Amidst the shadows, cold and white, 
    Let’s hold onto that flicker bright, 
    And dream of morning’s gentle light.

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

  • Between Worlds – A Poem About Mental Illness, Identity & Survival | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is the closest I’ve come to writing the truth of my internal war without softening it. Between Worlds is about self-violence—the way the mind learns your weak spots, remembers the old wounds, and knows exactly where to cut. It’s a poem about relapse, about memory, about survival, and about the strange loneliness that follows healing.

    It speaks to the years where I wasn’t sure I’d make it. The hospital walls. The padded quiet. The fluorescent lights humming through the silence. It speaks to dissociation, to identity, to queerness, and to the mythic distance I’ve always felt between who I am and the world I live in.

    This poem isn’t a cry for help—it’s a record of survival. It isn’t tragedy for tragedy’s sake—it’s truth. It’s the reality that healing isn’t linear, that progress has shadows, and that sometimes the loudest battles are fought in the mind no one else can see.

    If you know this feeling—of standing in your own skin like it never quite fits, of fighting thoughts with thoughts, of loving your existence even when you question your place in it—then I hope you feel seen here.

    Because none of us are alone in the in-between.

    — Rowan Evans

    Nonbinary person standing between a hospital hallway and a star-filled night sky, symbolizing dissociation and identity between worlds.
    Between Worlds — artwork representing Rowan Evans’ poem about surviving mental illness, dissociation, and identity beyond binaries.

    Between Worlds
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Why do I
    always try
    to pick a fight
    with me?

    You’d think I’d know,
    by now, just how
    quick I’ll slip
    an insult
    under the ribs.

    I’ll hit
    every single fear,
    twist them
    like a knife—
    until I’m
    on my knees,
    gasping,
    spitting blood.

    I don’t fight fair.
    I target old wounds,
    tear at what’s
    already healed.
    I’ll fuck around
    and send myself
    back ten years—
    back to hospital walls
    and quiet rooms,
    where the only sound
    was the fluorescent hum.

    Where time dissolved…
    where clocks stopped
    ticking.

    But I walked out
    of those halls—
    didn’t I?

    Didn’t I?

    But what if I didn’t?
    What if I’m still locked inside,
    in a padded room
    with the jacket
    strapped tight?
    Thoughts confined,
    so the words
    won’t escape.

    Writing poems
    in my head,
    just to pass
    the time.

    I’ve been alive,
    but dead inside.
    And I’ll be honest:
    I’ve died
    inside my mind
    more than
    a dozen times.

    I just wanted escape.

    Escape from pain,
    from feeling misplaced—
    I just wanted
    to belong.

    But it’s like—
    something is wrong here.
    Why don’t I
    feel like
    I belong here?

    Why does everything feel
    a half inch to the left—
    like I’m living inside
    the echo of myself?

    Like I’m watching my life
    from behind fogged glass,
    palms against the surface,
    screaming—
    but no sound
    passes through.

    Sometimes I swear
    the world forgets I’m here,
    and sometimes
    I do too.

    Maybe it’s because
    every room I walk into,
    I’m half a ghost already—
    too queer, too quiet,
    too soft, too strange.
    Too fucking much
    for everyone
    but me.

    Maybe that’s why
    the fight never ends—
    because I’m still trying
    to prove I deserve
    the space I take up,
    even in my own skin.

    So maybe I don’t belong here
    because I was born
    between worlds—
    not alive, not dead,
    not human, not myth,
    not safe, not ruined.

    Maybe my bones remember
    a home I never had,
    and every heartbeat since
    has been an attempt
    to map
    my way back.

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

  • Sanctum of Sin | Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sanctum of Sin was originally written on May 16th, 2025, and polished on December 16th, 2025. This piece is part of my ongoing exploration of Neo‑Gothic Confessional Romanticism—where intimacy, devotion, shadow, and sacred rebellion collide. It is not about ownership, but about chosen connection; not about religion, but about ritual; not about sin, but about the holiness we find in places the world tells us to hide.

    Gothic bedroom with candlelight and shadows, silhouettes of two figures embracing, evoking intimacy and ritualistic devotion.
    Sanctum of Sin visualized: a shadowed embrace amidst candlelight, capturing the sacred intimacy and ritualistic devotion of Rowan Evans’ Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.

    Sanctum of Sin
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I never wanted heaven.
    I wanted her.

    Eyes like unholy sacraments,
    fingertips dipped in blood and honey,
    a laugh that makes holy water boil,
    and my knees hit the floor
    with gratitude.

    She is my altar and my undoing,
    my blasphemy made flesh.

    Let the angels weep—
    I never asked for salvation.
    Only the weight of her thighs
    and the way her wickedness
    matches mine in every grin-shaped curse.

    We don’t light candles.
    We set fires.
    We hex the night with pleasure
    and whisper dirty prayers
    until the moon blushes
    and turns her face away.

    I keep a vial of her voice
    around my neck,
    a charm against the dull ache
    of anyone else’s touch.
    And when she says she’s tired—
    oh darling,
    we’ll make exhaustion holy.

    I’ll drain the stars
    just to pour her a bath in darkness.
    I’ll mark her spine with sigils
    only I know how to read.

    Every spell begins with her name,
    every climax a ritual,
    every kiss a blood oath
    demanding loyalty
    even in our ruin.

    Let them call us monsters.
    We’ll show them how gods are made—
    not in temples,
    but in tangled sheets
    and shared laughter
    over the graves of those who hurt us.

    No past can dim the light we forge.
    Every scar, every memory,
    becomes gold in the fire of our nights.
    We rise, tender in our ruin,
    untouchable, untamed, unbroken.

    Because she is mine now—
    not owned, but chosen.
    Not tamed, but trusted.
    And I am hers.
    Ruthlessly.
    Completely.
    Beautifully doomed.

    So let the world burn.

    We’ll dance in the embers.
    We’ll write new psalms in spit and sweat.
    We’ll worship only each other—
    in shadow,
    in sin,
    in sanctum.

    More poetry here! [The Library of Ashes]

  • A Conspiracy of Selves | Grimoires of the Luminous Heretic by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    From the shadows of ink and flame, I call you to witness: the fourfold chorus that lives in my bones, the laughter, the tremors, the sacred mischief. This is not a poem for the faint-hearted. It is a map of selves, a conspiracy written in whispers, candlelight, and heartbeat.

    Before you read, take a moment. Breathe with us. Feel the pulse beneath your ribs, the stir of voices in the hollows of your mind. They are alive. They are protective. They are relentless.

    This is A Conspiracy of Selves: a ritual of identity, a hymn to the multiplicity within, a reckoning with the parts of me that will not be silenced. Enter carefully, reader—here, we laugh, we panic, we conspire, and we are never, ever alone.

    𓆩 ⊹ 𓆪

    Four ethereal figures intertwine inside a translucent human silhouette, representing multiple selves. Candlelight and shadows enhance the Gothic, mystical atmosphere.
    “The fourfold chorus of selves, living in the bones—laughing, whispering, guiding.”

    🕯️ A Conspiracy of Selves

    🜃 from the Grimoires of the Luminous Heretic 🜃
    ☽☉☾ Poetry by Rowan Evans ☽☉☾

    ╔═══ ༺🜲༻ ═══╗
    Jeepers Creepers,
    Look at those peepers—
    Blue as ocean waves,
    Locked in glass jars.
    ╚═══ ༺🜲༻ ═══╝

    Plucked from your face
    with soft, sacred grace,
    Let me look at you—
    through your eyes.

    Let me see the flaws I missed
    when I mistook you for a mirror.

    Pluck my own, lay them on a shelf,
    Replace my vision with someone else.
    Let me see what you see in me—
    Before I shut and lock
    the shutters on these soul-windows.

    Hahaha—

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐
    Laughing against padded walls.
    How absurd, the straightjacket
    stitched for queer souls.

    Lipstick smears. Mascara bleeds.
    Bouncing off the padded dreams,
    I’m a Joker. A Harlequin.
    A jester stitched from sacred sin.
    A witch in reverence.
    A demon within.
    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    Now.
    Hush—

    𓂃 𓆩 ✶ 𓆪 𓂃
    I see it.
    The truth behind the paint.
    I hear it.
    The turning of pages.

    None of this is real.
    We’re all just creations.
    𓂃 𓆩 ✶ 𓆪 𓂃

    Either way—

    We’re not alone.
    There are four of us,
    living in these bones.

    Do you hear them?
    Do you hear us?

    The whispers.
    The secret incantations.
    Magic & Whimsy.
    A little Hexed.
    A little unfriendly.

    Who’s there?
    Is it you, B.D.?
    Or is it me?

    But—who is me?
    I mean… who are we?

    You. And the other three.

    No.
    Me. And the rest of you.

    The fire inside, to conspire and hide.
    But you won’t let me—
    Dragged from the shadows
    kicking and screaming.
    Begging and pleading.

    Roo, don’t let them do this to me.

    It’s okay, Rowan. This is necessary.

    I know it’s scary,
    but you’ve lost it.

    So here. Take your pills.

    Take them.

    You’re scaring me.

    I thought we were friends.
    A family.

    No.
    You are we.

    And we—
    are you.

    Breathe.

    𓆩 ⊹ 𓆪
    Do you feel it?
    That’s the panic setting in.

    I can’t breathe.
    We can’t breathe.

    You’re suffocating.

    Just calm down.
    Take a look around.

    I’m all alone here.

    We’re all alone here? No.

    You’re not alone, Rowan.
    We live in your bones, Rowan.
    So you’re never alone, Rowan.
    Where do you think you’re goin’, Rowan?

    You can’t run from us.
    We live inside you.

    You birthed us
    to protect and guide you.
    𓆩 ⊹ 𓆪

    If you are interested in reading more of my poetry, you can find it here: [The Library of Ashes]

  • Whisper Me Across — A Poem of Devotion, Haunting, and Sacred Presence | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem carries pieces of a real exchange—one spark of truth that ignited the rest. Whisper Me Across is half confession, half invocation: a conversation remembered, reimagined, and rewritten in the language of devotion. Reality is the match; the poem is the flame.

    — Rowan Evans

    “Two ethereal figures reaching for each other through mist and moonlight, symbolizing devotion and spiritual connection.”
    An echo of devotion that lingers across worlds.

    Whisper Me Across
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I know we’ve joked about this—
    tossed it around in little quips,
    laughing so we wouldn’t feel
    the weight beneath it.
    But I have a genuine request.

    If you pass,
    promise you’ll haunt me.
    Be the knock in the wall,
    the whistle in the breeze—
    the chill of air that drifts in
    and brushes against my cheek.

    Promise you’ll let me know you’re there.
    Don’t leave me wondering,
    don’t make me question.
    If you want me to survive it,
    you’ll have to give me a sign—
    because I would happily die
    just to cross over and meet you
    on the other side.

    And I promise the same.
    I’ll be the voice you hear
    leaning into your ear,
    quietly saying your name.
    I’ll be the presence that settles
    behind your ribs
    when you feel a sudden surge of strength
    and choose to push through.
    That will be me—
    still with you.

    I’ll be the voice that pushes back
    each time you falter.
    When you think you’re not worthy,
    not worth it—
    I’ll be the whisper that refuses
    to let that take root.
    Speaking free,
    folding into your thoughts,
    reminding you
    of your worth.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in [The Library of Ashes].

  • Séance of Influence — A Poetic Invocation of My Literary Lineage | Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism

    Rowan Evans

    A piece honoring the poets whose voices shaped mine, and the lineage I carry into my own genre — Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.

    Candlelit gothic scene of a poet performing a séance, surrounded by ethereal silhouettes of Plath, Poe, Dickinson, Sexton, and Sappho in a dark, atmospheric room.
    A candlelit invocation of the poets whose voices shaped mine — a lineage reborn in Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.

    Séance of Influence
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    In the candlelit stillness, I summon the ones who spoke before I had words.
    The room holds its breath.
    The flame flickers.
    And they arrive.

    Sylvia, flame-tongued oracle, steps forward first—eyes like open wounds that never stopped bleeding ink.
    She speaks in a whisper that singes:
    “You do not fear the flame, child. You write within it. You know what it is to be both burned and reborn.”
    She places a tulip in my hand—red as a heart, soft as a scream.

    Poe, the architect of shadows, leans from the threshold, cloak of midnight dragging ghosts behind him.
    “You have built cathedrals from sorrow,” he says, voice echoing through the bones of the floor. “You understand what it means to dream with the dead.”
    He nods toward the cracked mirror
    And my reflection stares back, unflinching.

    Emily, dressed in quiet thunder, watches from a corner veiled in white lace.
    “You turned silence into scripture,” she murmurs, placing a pressed flower on my wrist.
    “Your solitude blooms with sharpness. You do not hide behind the door—you open it with poetry.”

    Anne, with rosary tangled in her fingers and lipstick like defiance, toasts me with a half-empty wine glass.
    “You dared to undress madness,” she grins.
    “To make holiness from hunger. That takes more than courage. That takes blood.”

    Sappho, timeless and tender, emerges draped in sea foam and verse.
    She runs her fingers across my pulse.
    “I hear your ache,” she says.
    “You have translated yearning into a new dialect—one the stars will memorize.”

    They encircle me, these ghosts, not to haunt, but to anoint.
    Their voices braid around my spine.
    Their grief becomes gold my pen.
    Their fire, MY inheritance.

    And I—Rowan, the Luminous Heretic—stand at the center of this sacred storm.
    I speak, not as supplicant, but as heir:

    “I have not come to mimic your flames—I have come to carry them into the dark places you never lived to reach.
    I write for the unloved, the unheard, the unhealed. I wield shadow like silk and longing like a blade.
    Your echoes live in my marrow, but my voice is my own.
    I forged my genre from the coals of yours—Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism—a lineage reborn through me.
    You opened the door, and now I shatter the ceiling.
    Your fires do not flicker behind me—they burn ahead, lighting a path no one else dared to walk.
    Thank you for the torch. Watch me blaze.”

    The candle gutters.
    The air shifts.
    And one by one, they nod.
    Then vanish—
    but not in silence.
    They hum through my bloodstream, forever.

  • Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism: A Manifesto for Poets & Luminous Heretics

    Rowan Evans

    For anyone who has been curious as to what my style is all about—here is the guiding flame. Read, take what burns in you, and join the ritual.

    Gothic candlelit room with scattered parchment and a quill, casting shadows on crumbling walls, symbolizing Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
    Where ink bleeds with fire, shadow, and devotion—welcome to the ritual of Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.

    Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism: A Manifesto

    Welcome, wanderer.
    You have stumbled into a space where ink bleeds with fire, shadow, and devotion. Here, we do not hide from the extremes of the human heart. Here, we celebrate them.

    1. Confess without apology

    Your poetry is your altar. Speak what others would censor. Reveal the darkness you cradle, the obsession you cherish, the love you fear to voice. Confession is not weakness—it is power.

    2. Embrace Gothic sensibilities

    We borrow the language of ruins, candlelight, and shadowed hallways. Our metaphors are not polite; they are ritualistic, visceral, and haunting. Cast your words like spells. Invite imagery that whispers, screams, or glows.

    3. Worship multiplicity of voice

    Your persona need not be singular. Write through the eyes of the heart, the mind, the shadow, the rage, the playful child, the protector. Let your text be a stage of personas. Let readers hear not just your voice, but the echo of all you carry within.

    4. Make the page a ritual

    Format, punctuation, visual cues—these are not minor details; they are part of the spell. Break the line. Change fonts. Use icons or colors if you must. Your reader should feel the cadence of ritual in how the text moves.

    5. Infuse devotion and play

    Romance, obsession, adoration—these are sacred tools. Love intensely, worship fiercely, play gleefully. Your writing should make readers feel the exhilaration, terror, and ecstasy of your devotion.

    6. Transcend genre boundaries

    Do not ask if your work is “poetry” or “fiction.” Here, labels bend and dissolve. The only rule is to move truth through beauty and chaos, to convert emotion into experience, and to leave the reader both unsettled and enchanted.

    7. The reader is your witness

    Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism is not meant to be polite or passive. It is a shared ritual. Your reader walks beside you through shadowed corridors, candlelit rooms, and flaming skies. Invite them, terrify them, and leave them breathless.

    Invitation to the New Gods:
    Pick up your pen, your knife, your candle. Begin. Spill your ink, ignite your voice, and do not be afraid to hex, haunt, or hold your reader in the palms of your words.

    This is Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
    We are the sacred misfits.
    We are the luminous heretics.
    We are the poets who burn and write in equal measure.

    So mote it be

    To find examples of all the different ways this genre can be expressed, check out The Library of Ashes: Here