Sometimes the loudest critic in the room is the one living inside your own head.
Creative Whiplash (Pick A Lane!) is about the pressure to define yourself as a writer, choose a style, and stay neatly within its boundaries—even when your creativity refuses to cooperate. One moment, I’m writing gothic poetry; the next, I’m throwing punchlines, weaving mythology, or drawing battle lines with a pen.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, the inner critic starts screaming that nothing makes sense.
The funny part? Sometimes the poem proves the critic wrong before the critic even finishes complaining.
Maybe I don’t need to pick a lane. Maybe creativity was never meant to be a straight road.
— Rowan Evans
Pick a lane? I tried. My creativity took the exit, changed three times, and somehow wrote a poem about it.
Creative Whiplash (Pick A Lane!) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I asked you to show me a metaphor—
you asked, what’s the meta for?
You said you’re a writer, are you sure?
Because I’m not anymore—
run on sentence, run on lines,
zero flow and zero rhymes—
that’s how you write.
Ironic—
I just proved myself
wrong, right?
Well, sometimes I get in my head,
convince myself that nothing I write
is ever good enough—
and no one can call my bluff.
Isn’t that rough?
Pick a lane! Pick a lane!
Repeated, screaming in my brain—
are you a gothic poet,
or do you draw battle lines?
Do you weave myths,
or write comedic shit?
Pick a lane! Pick a lane!
Repeated, screaming in my brain—
giving readers whiplash
with how fast, I switch lanes—
it’s a pain in the neck,
creativity, hard to keep in check.
Iron Sharpens Iron is about what happens when every version of my creative mind sits down at the same table: the gothic romantic, the absurdist comic, the mythmaker, the battle-poet, the joke creator, and whatever other voice decides to kick the door open halfway through a line.
The notebook becomes the sparring ring. One thought throws a punch, another throws a punchline, and sometimes Batman apparently gets involved.
I don’t always plan where the thread is going. Sometimes I just follow it until the poem lands somewhere that makes sense.
Maybe that’s the point.
I don’t need to silence the contradictions. I need them to sharpen each other.
— Rowan Evans
I don’t silence the voices in my head. I let them sharpen each other.
Iron Sharpens Iron Poetry by Rowan Evans
I sit by myself— alone in body, crowded in mind— it’s a constant battle of wits, moon-fed goth kid versus the battle-poet turning pens to WMDs.
The notebook— just a test site, where I drop bombs. It’s constant— the scream of the alarms.
I write so much because my mind fights too much— a gothic romantic, an absurdist comic— opinions, opinions, too many opinions— constant contradictions.
Is this a joke?
Are the emotions sincere?
What the fuck— (Batman!) is that reference doing here?
That’s just how my mind is sometimes— I write a line and follow it, (Stalker.) I don’t plan it—I just follow the thread, guide the ship and land it. But sometimes I get lost— I’ll orbit the planet, or drift in my dreams— and they say to make the dreams work, it takes team work— well, I became my own team, every version of me.
Gothic romantic, absurdist comic, mythmaker, joke creator and professional hater— (Jokes. Love ya!) a battle-poet raised on battle rappers and comedians— how I learned to land a punchline, can’t fight with my fists— but can fight with my mind, and I do it all the time— with myself, I spar, iron sharpens iron, after all.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Blindfolded & Still Winning] A playful battle-poetry freestyle about shutting off the inner editor, letting instinct take over, and discovering that sometimes the pen writes best when you stop watching it.
[Literarily Speaking] They think silence means weakness. They should probably have paid more attention to the pen. Literarily Speaking turns gothic imagery, raven feathers, rose-petal ink, and absurd fictional geography into a playful battle-poetry flex about dismantling your enemies with words instead of hate.
[The Playground] What happens when mythology stops being something to hide behind and becomes architecture for the imagination? The Playground (Language, Metaphors and More) explores Rowan Evans’s relationship with language, symbolism, metaphor, humor, and twenty-three years of turning the page into a place where anything can happen.
Some thoughts don’t arrive quietly. They repeat, build momentum, and turn themselves into a soundtrack you never asked to hear.
The Strings Won’t Stop takes that experience and gives it a physical sound: violins playing somewhere inside an empty room, each note feeding the fear and keeping the loop alive. The speaker isn’t asking for a beautiful song—they’re asking for silence, for one interruption in the pattern, one change in tempo that might finally give the mind somewhere else to go.
Sometimes the hardest part isn’t finding the words.
It’s getting the strings to stop playing them.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the mind doesn’t need another song. It needs the strings to stop.
The Strings Won’t Stop Poetry by Rowan Evans
I sit in an empty room,
listening to the haunting cry
of violins—
I’m just longing
for silence—
but the strings
sing for me—
they sing a song
I don’t want to hear,
it amplifies the fear—
it makes me wonder,
what am I doing here?
But they don’t stop—
the strings sing
and they watch—
I sit in the corner,
and I rock—
back and forth,
listening for the chorus,
or something to break
the loop—
a tempo switch,
a cadence change—
something,
anything
to rearrange
the thoughts in my brain.
Journey into the Hexverse
[A Person First] A poem about the difference between loving a woman and loving the role someone expects her to play—because partnership requires respect, autonomy, and room to remain a person first.
[Half a Picture] What happens when someone falls in love with the person they discover through your poetry? Half a Picture explores the strange intimacy between writer and reader—and the distance between seeing someone’s mind through their words and truly knowing the whole person.
[If You Want to Go] When conversations become nothing more than repeated excuses, sometimes the only answer left is to stop pretending. A raw, direct poem about emotional exhaustion, frustration, and the difficult freedom of letting someone walk away.
Literarily Speaking plays with the old assumption that silence means weakness—and then turns that assumption into a playground for metaphor, gothic imagery, and wordplay. The speaker doesn’t need fists, fury, or actual hatred to make an impact. A pen, a raven feather, a few rose petals, and a sufficiently sharp vocabulary will do just fine.
The mythology of Wish-A-Motherfucker Wood and the Fuck Around Valley is deliberately ridiculous, because this piece knows exactly what it is doing: dressing poetic confidence up like a threat before revealing that the real damage is entirely literary.
The point isn’t to hate harder.
It’s to write sharper.
Literarily speaking.
— Rowan Evans
I don’t need hate to eviscerate you—literarily speaking.
Literarily Speaking Poetry by Rowan Evans
They think because I’m quiet,
I’m an easy target—
so they talk a lot,
and they talk
like they forgot
where I stood,
bitch, I came up in the—
Wish-A-Motherfucker Wood.
Nestled in the Fuck Around valley,
come around here—you’ll Find Out.
So I pen my threats
in fresh crimson—
ink made from rose petals,
quill from raven feather—
that’s why I write the way I do—
because I know Unkindness well.
I know the world can be cruel,
but being full of hate isn’t cool—
and that’s why
I write the way I do—
I don’t need hate
to eviscerate you…
literarily speaking…
Journey into the Hexverse
[The Playground] What happens when mythology stops being something to hide behind and becomes architecture for the imagination? The Playground (Language, Metaphors and More) explores Rowan Evans’s relationship with language, symbolism, metaphor, humor, and twenty-three years of turning the page into a place where anything can happen.
For me, language is something to climb through, rearrange, break apart, rebuild, and occasionally weaponize for the sake of a really bad joke. Mythology and symbolism are still part of that world, but they aren’t walls I hide behind anymore—they’re architecture. They give the imagination somewhere to live while the poet underneath it keeps revealing himself, piece by piece.
The Playground (Language, Metaphors and More) is an invitation into that space.
It is part creative philosophy, part victory lap, part conversation with the page—and, naturally, part terrible knock-knock joke. Because if I’ve spent twenty-three years turning language into a playground, I’m going to play.
— Rowan Evans
The page isn’t a cage. It’s a playground—and I’ve brought my own rules.
The Playground (Language, Metaphors and More) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I sat down—
with the intent to write,
had a lot of ideas
on my mind tonight—
like what if the moon
was a witness?
And the tide a guide through
the emotional current
in the room—
but that’s just if I
went the route
of mythology,
symbolism—
and everything
I used to hide behind.
That’s not how I use it now—
it’s still my mythology,
symbolic architecture—
giving my words texture—
but I don’t
hide behind it—
I use it now,
to show the art of me,
getting to the deeper
heart of me—
not the whole picture,
just a small part of me.
I’ve been doing this
for twenty-three
years and counting—
and I’m definitely
not on my way out now—
I’ll hit my second, third,
fourth and fifth wind,
any day now—
I’ve turned language
into my fucking playground—
everything is a game now.
Just conversating
with the page now—
I’m done pretending,
like I don’t write flames now—
poetry’s royalty,
I’m taking my crown now—
and I think it’s time you all
bow down—
look I’m going to make a joke,
turn into a clown now.
Why don’t we slow down?
I’ll tell you that joke now—
Knock, Knock—
who’s there?
Disa—
Disa-who?
Disa-me? I disa-you—
with a line so mean
you’ll want to disappear,
wish you were never here—
here’s a warning, dear:
If you see my ravens,
perched upon your lawn—
it’s an omen—
you are already gone.
Journey into the Hexverse
[The Metaphor Machine] A poem that takes apart its own machinery as it runs—breaking lines, breaking thoughts, and following metaphors from moonlight to tides, oceans, shorelines, and city streets.
[Confession or Cap?] A sharp and playful look at the line between confession and exaggeration, where a nice poet admits that their pen sometimes talks a little too much shit—and occasionally sets the page on fire.
Some dreams begin in darkness, but not all darkness is empty. Sometimes, the things we recognize by instinct—ravens calling, roses blooming, the pull of the tide, the quiet presence of the moon—become the only landmarks we need.
This poem wanders through an abyss where absence becomes invitation, where questions lead deeper than answers, and where the familiar waits beyond the silence. It is a journey through the spaces between fear and comfort, memory and discovery, nothingness and belonging.
And perhaps the moon was never truly missing. Perhaps some forms of light simply require us to keep walking until we’re ready to see them.
— Rowan Evans
Even in the deepest abyss, some light knows how to find you.
When the Moon Answered the Ravens Poetry by Rowan Evans
I had a dream last night—
a line I’ve written too many times,
but this one was different—
there was no moon, no tide—
no shoreline—it was pitch black,
an abyss—just me and nothingness.
Then I heard the raven’s calls—
and it didn’t feel bizarre at all.
It felt oddly—
calming—
I stumbled further into the dark,
listening to raven after raven call—
it was weird, this unkindness
didn’t feel very unkind at all—
I tripped on something,
which was odd—
because there was nothing
to trip on.
I fell—
hit the ground—
the ravens didn’t make a sound.
Slowly, I rose to my feet—
surprised to see, a rose at my feet.
Illuminated by a single sliver
of silver light—
it caught my eye,
so I knelt down—
as my eyes scanned
the surrounding abyss—
I saw them.
Roses,
a dozen of them—
each lit by its own sliver
of dedicated lunar light—
which told me,
it was night—
but something didn’t feel right—
where was the moon at?
What was the source of this light?
The questions didn’t stop me—
I kept walking—moving further,
deeper into the abyss—
when suddenly the taste of salt
hit my lips—
and the ground begin to shift,
it moved like waves—
now I couldn’t stop,
something was pulling me—
something I couldn’t see,
but could feel it—
a thread tied to my heart,
pulling me along.
It was guiding me—
but at the same time,
there was something
pushing me—
and I dropped a hint
five lines back—
what could that be?
And as I let the thread
pull me along—
I began to notice
the light—
an image trembling—
it was shimmering,
across the top of the abyss—
eyes lifted, I saw it,
the thing I missed—
hanging high above,
it was my favorite witness—
the one I could always sit with.
Finally—
after what felt like
an eternity of silence—
the ravens started
to speak again—
and the moon
answered them—
that’s when the world came alive.
I could hear the ocean waves,
feel the mist on my face—
taste the salt on my lips,
ocean kissed—
the smell of roses
perfumed the air—
it’s like the world
suddenly became aware
that I was even there—
I was on my knees,
watching the waves—
smile on my face—
because in the back of my mind,
I knew…
the moon would never abandon—
the tide would never
refuse to guide—
the ravens
would never leave my side,
while everything I feel—
an ocean deep, an ocean wide—
the roses grow in a garden shaped by
all the beauty and pain in my life.
Journey into the Hexverse
[You Still Pop Into My Brain] Sometimes, someone from your past still wanders into your thoughts—not because you want them back, but because they once held a place in your everyday life. A reflective poem about disappointment, growth, and the strange persistence of memory after moving on.
[Louder Than the Rain] A short confessional poem about the overwhelming noise of anxious thoughts, the strange silence of feeling alone in a crowded room, and finding a way to translate pain into words.
[Let Me Be Pacific] A lyrical poem about sitting beside the Pacific Ocean and discovering that an enormous body of water can become a bridge between distant hearts. Through ocean imagery, wordplay, and reflections on California and the Philippines, Let Me Be Pacific explores how love and poetry can cross even the greatest distances.
The Sacred Timeline is a map of how my relationship with the pen has changed over nearly three decades of my life.
I started with stories about worlds that already existed—Dragon Ball Z, Power Rangers, Pokémon—and slowly began building worlds of my own. Then the pen became a way to learn cadence, translate music, hide things I couldn’t say aloud, survive periods when writing itself became difficult, and eventually turn pain into something crafted enough to share.
Every era left something behind: the storyteller, the songwriter, the secret keeper, the gothic romantic, the heretic, the battle poet, the confessor, the mythmaker. Some symbols came and stayed. Some meanings changed. Some questions took decades to become clear enough to write down.
And the timeline is still moving.
At thirty-six, I don’t consider the pen mastered so much as understood differently. Writing is still an experiment. The boundaries keep moving. The imagery keeps evolving. The person holding the pen keeps changing.
Maybe that’s the most sacred part of the timeline: the ink stayed, but I didn’t.
— Rowan Evans
Thirty-six years, countless pages, one pen—and an identity still being written.
The Sacred Timeline Poetry by Rowan Evans
I picked up a pen for the first time at seven, I was just writing stories then— Dragonball Z, Power Rangers and Pokémon… that’s what I wrote about way back when—
it was much lighter out, the sun had yet to meet the clouds— I was a natural storyteller, a real lore keeper, weaving lore before I even knew what lore meant. It was like this for years, I created my own space in worlds provided by minds much older than mine.
Then at ten—I switched what the pen meant to me, my creativity shifted mentally— no longer was I just a storyteller, I was letting music be the teacher now. Translating thoughts to song, at least the words of it— I was writing to worship something. Something that in six short years, I would begin to question—
but the years between ten and then—were spent, using the pen to learn cadence. I was trying to learn to perform on the page— I couldn’t do it in body, but I could turn a notebook to a stage.
At twelve things began to shift again, but with me, not with the pen— I still felt the sun, I still saws its rays, but I also saw more cloudy days— that year was hard for me, I couldn’t talk about it with clarity— most people would react like, “you’re scaring me”— so I stopped talking about it really, I closed my lips, but still let the ink spill— the page became a secret keeper, keeping the secrets this storyteller was too afraid to say out loud.
Thirteen the skies went dark— this is when life really got hard. At the beginning of the year, it’s like the ink in my pen had begun to dry— I don’t know what was wrong, but I couldn’t write. I tried and I tried— pages ripped from notebooks, balled up and scattered.
No songs, no stories— I had lost interest in things that I used to find most interesting. Parents took me to the doctor, and the doctor said—
“This kid’s depressed— and anxious too, I’ll write a prescription that should do. A referral for therapy, they’ll get them to talk— they’ll find out what’s wrong.”
A week would go by— giving the medicine a try, it takes time— it has to build up in your system. In the meantime, here’s a therapist, someone to talk to— they’ll listen to your problems, they’ll help you.
And they did—a little bit, they got me to talk a little bit too. But still they saw I was holding back— so they recommended journaling, but that felt tedious and boring. I needed to find a way to make it play— bring a little joy to it, even if falsified.
I made it a game to translate my pain— how many ways could I say everything? Is it possible to flip it? Maybe change the script and shift the meaning? These were the questions I began to ask— even when my ink ran in all black—
back when my heart was all cracks, before I learned how to use the gold to patch— I struggled through, just writing purely what I felt— thirteen, fourteen and fifteen, often felt like hell.
Sixteen, I hit my stride— not in life but with a pen, things were hard still, but now I could translate with skill. Not much, if we’re being honest— just enough to keep the pain beautiful, in case someone else saw it—
Seventeen, I did it again— reinvented myself with the pen, more gothic in my intentions. Maybe I finally read Poe, who knows— but ravens became a part of my soul.
At eighteen, I went from church steeples and church people to writing cathedrals for outcasts and heretics— we hadn’t yet, become luminous. Shadows and lace, velvet and venom— but I also opened my eyes more, became more aware of the world around— outside the borders I’m confined in.
At twenty, I started to write for people more—to uplift, and let them know they’re not alone— whatever they were going through, there was somebody with them. Even from a distance—
I had friends across seas, in places with palm trees— and in places with Kangaroos, even scarier—Emu.
I don’t know what that means in this piece—but it’s true, so do with that, what you’re going to do.
At twenty-two, I got more serious about the ink— I started to write everything. Every thought and every half-formed idea— I just put it on a page, my brain would not be a cage.
Then came twenty-five, the lowest point in my life— it wasn’t a sudden crash, but a slow rot— it bled through every thought, a feeling I couldn’t translate, familiar but different, heavier somehow— so the ink slowed to a drip, I started to let thoughts slip.
Twenty-six, I got serious again— more aggressive with the time spent, my pieces became more crafted and the ink was shaped with intention. Ravens, the moon, and roses too— the symbols I began to use.
I ascend on the back of raven wings— the silver light of the moon pierced the canopy—rose petals drift in the shifting currents of the wind. Everything connects, pay more attention and you’ll become more aware—
At thirty— I really began to question everything— who I was, who I am, who I want to be— and that’s still a question I’m working on answering. But it went deeper than that— I was questioning who I was in a deeper sense, like had I been a façade in some sense. Was I playing the role I was assigned, or being true to who I thought I was becoming?
This became a recurring theme in my poetry— it’s an odd thing to discover so late in life, that the person you thought you were— isn’t who you’re supposed to be. So I chased answers in ink to questions I couldn’t fully ask yet.
There were two more years of this— and I’m still not finished.
Thirty-three hit with another shift— I mixed the light with the shadow, it was Easter in the cathedral— pastel colors lit up the stained glass. My imagery began to shift shades— roses in all colors, pastel hues, but the thorns were still there too. So even my softness had bite—
and it evolved more, by thirty-four— more teeth but more softness too. Brighter hues and deeper shadows— this is when I learned, you can’t have one without the other.
The shadow needs the light to cast— and you need the shade to dim the shine, because too much shine— you might go blind.
Then came thirty-five— the modern era, the current phase, one year before the current day— and I know this won’t age well, it’s too time specific—
Finally, we’ve reached thirty-six, and I feel like I’ve mastered this— but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped learning, because every day is an experiment— really, it’s all about the experience— just learning new things and pushing it, finding where the boundary is and bending it, you gotta realize— you can’t always give a shit, who cares what they think— it’s your ink—shape it how you see fit.
Journey into the Hexverse
[The Metaphor Machine] A poem that takes apart its own machinery as it runs—breaking lines, breaking thoughts, and following metaphors from moonlight to tides, oceans, shorelines, and city streets.
[Exhibit A (The Evidence)] A quick-witted, unapologetically playful poem about writing fast, crossing lines, roasting the competition, and letting rhythm do the talking.
[Welcome to the Hexverse] Step into the Hexverse—a poetic world where mythmaking, humor, rage, creativity, and confession collide, and darkness becomes something that can be reshaped into art.
“Caged Birds Don’t Bow” was originally written in December 2024. This remix, written in July 2026, returns to that same image of wings, chains, and a bird refusing to be owned—but with a different rhythm and a little more fire behind the words.
The cage may look familiar.
The voice inside it isn’t.
— Rowan Evans
The cage can break. The wings were never yours to own.
Caged Birds Don’t Bow (Remix) Poetry by Rowan Evans (written July 30th, 2026)
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 isn’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 aren’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 isn’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 isn’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,
her strength takes wing—
because caged birds don’t bow…
they sing.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Hell’s Protégé (Remix)] Rowan Evans revisits Hell’s Protégé, originally written in 2024, and reshapes the dark, infernal persona through a newer voice. The remix keeps the fire, darkness, and diabolic ambition of the original while allowing the poem to breathe differently.
[Hell’s Protégé & Caged Birds Don’t Bow] Dive into Rowan Evans’ twin poems, Hell’s Protégé and Caged Birds Don’t Bow, where fire meets freedom. Explore devotion, rebellion, and unapologetic truth through lyrical darkness and diss-track energy.
Not to rewrite what I was, but to see what happens when the person holding the pen has changed.
“Hell’s Protégé” began in December 2024. This remix, written in July 2026, keeps the bones of that original piece while giving the language a little more room to breathe, sharpen, and burn.
Same Hell.
Different poet.
— Rowan Evans
Same Hell. Different poet.
Hell’s Protégé (Remix) Poetry by Rowan Evans (written July 30th, 2026)
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 a 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.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Hell’s Protégé & Caged Birds Don’t Bow] Dive into Rowan Evans’ twin poems, Hell’s Protégé and Caged Birds Don’t Bow, where fire meets freedom. Explore devotion, rebellion, and unapologetic truth through lyrical darkness and diss-track energy.
Sometimes a poem starts with an image that is just too good to leave alone.
A gathering of black feathers. A suspicious little chorus. A feeling that something is happening around you, even if nobody bothered to send you the invitation.
So, naturally, I had to turn it into a conspiracy.
Welcome to the middle of it.
— Rowan Evans
Just me, minding my business, while the birds hold a very suspicious meeting around me.
A Conspiracy to Rave in Treachery & Unkindness Poetry by Rowan Evans
It’s just me, no party,
standing in the middle—
with a rave all around,
just feathers of darkness
covering the ground—
it’s no mystery
when you’re stuck in the middle
of a conspiracy,
listening to the treachery—
inspiring the unkindness.
They are poetic in their darkness—
unlike the violence
of the Mob & Murder—
those crows can’t be trusted.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Roses & 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.
[The Crypt] A mysterious man watches from a crypt as a woman enters the graveyard and kneels before an unnamed grave. In this compact gothic poem, fascination, death, and possession blur together beneath the shadows of the cemetery.
[Homecoming] Homecoming is a return to the Gothic aesthetic at the heart of Rowan Evans’s poetry, blending Poe, mythology, horror icons, moonlight, ravens, and darkness into a meditation on artistic identity and finding your way back to the voice that feels like home.
[Poet’s Curse] Poet’s Curse explores the painful side of falling too deeply: giving pieces of yourself away freely, taking accountability for your own heartbreak, and realizing that learning to let go can be harder than learning to love.
[The Monster in the Margins II] The Monster in the Margins II transforms Rowan Evans’s Seven Deadly Sins mythology into a horror story written between the lines, where Lust, Wrath, Sloth, Greed, Pride, Envy, and Gluttony become monsters growing from pain, grudges, and scars.
