Others arrive already carrying the scent of decay.
These two minimalist pieces were written as companions—two sides of the same creative process. One looks toward cultivation, growth, and the strange beauty of watching an idea become something tangible. The other looks toward the thoughts that come darker, older, or already beginning to rot.
Together, Rose and Ruin sit in the same garden.
One grows.
One decays.
Both become poetry.
— Rowan Evans
Rose & Ruin Poems by Rowan Evans
Somewhere between ink and imagination, the garden begins to bloom.
Rose Poetry by Rowan Evans
I plant a seed and water it,
creativity and ink, fertilizing it—
watching masterpieces bloom
in a garden of thoughts.
Even the thoughts that rot can still become something worth writing.
Ruin Poetry by Rowan Evans
I use ’em—
before the thoughts rot,
but I’m a gothic poet—
I’ll still use the rotten thoughts,
I see the world through ’em.
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.
[The Answer Is (Yes)] What kind of writer am I? Mythmaker, confessor, comedian, philosopher, dream-architect, romantic, storyteller, and diss-poet. This self-reflective poem explores the impossibility of fitting creativity into a single category—and embraces every version of the truth a pen can touch.
[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 opening came first—a joke, a banana peel, a little bit of wordplay and self-awareness. The speaker trips over their own feelings and tries to laugh about it before anyone notices.
That’s fairly normal for me.
Humor has always been one of the ways I approach vulnerability. Not because the feelings aren’t real, but because sometimes honesty becomes easier to hold when it’s carrying a joke.
But somewhere during the writing process, the poem shifted.
The focus stopped being the speaker’s feelings and became the person receiving them.
Because love, at least the kind I’m interested in writing about, isn’t ownership.
It isn’t rescue.
It isn’t fixing someone.
It’s creating safety.
The construction imagery in the second half comes from that idea. The speaker isn’t trying to rebuild another person or erase their past. They’re trying to create something steady. Something reliable. A place where another person can set down their fears for a while and rest.
That distinction matters to me.
Too many love stories focus on saving someone.
I’m more interested in what happens when you simply show up, consistently, and help build conditions where healing becomes possible.
Brick by brick.
Choice by choice.
Day by day.
The final lines grew from a belief I’ve carried for a long time:
Everyone deserves a future that feels safe to stand inside.
Everyone deserves foundations that don’t shake beneath them.
And sometimes the greatest gift we can offer another person isn’t a promise to save them.
It’s a promise to help build something that lasts.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes love isn’t about fixing what’s broken. Sometimes it’s about laying a foundation strong enough for someone to finally rest without fear of collapse. 🖤🧱✨
Not Rebuilding You Poetry by Rowan Evans
It happened quick. I slipped— banana peel. But you can trust me, I think I’ve proven that, (huh?) so you know you can trust what I feel is real.
From the fear to devotion, loyalty in motion— I try to give you no reason to question.
And you don’t need to return this. This isn’t a library, no overdue charge— just a gift straight from my heart, that I give with purpose.
And if you’re wondering why I give like this…
You’re worth it.
I’d move earth, shift dirt— excavate to stop the hurt. Prepare the land for a new foundation.
So let me lay brick after brick, patience in every layer, hope in every line. Not rebuilding you— just building a place where you can finally rest without fear of collapse.
And if it takes time, I’m not afraid of slow miracles—
because love like this isn’t renovation— it’s resurrection.
A clearing of old ruins, a promise carved into the earth: you deserve a future that doesn’t hurt to stand on.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[The Language Her Soul Speaks] What if love isn’t about being understood, but learning to understand someone else? “The Language Her Soul Speaks” is a free verse poem about intimacy, communication, curiosity, and the desire to know another person beyond the limits of language.
[Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)] A moonlit shoreline, a rowboat full of ducks, a piggybank with no cents, and a confession hidden in plain sight. Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3) explores how humor, wordplay, and absurdity can become a side door to vulnerability when the truth feels too difficult to say directly.
[L Words & Heart] A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.
Sometimes a place stops feeling like home long before you actually leave it. The streets still know your name, but something in you has already begun drifting toward another horizon.
This poem came from that feeling – the quiet moment you realize your roots are no longer meant for the soil you’re standing in. It’s not always about running away; sometimes it’s about allowing yourself to grow somewhere new.
Roots & Wings sits in that space between leaving and becoming. Between the life that shaped you and the one waiting somewhere beyond the horizon.
We carry out roots with us, even when we learn how to fly.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes growth means planting new roots—and trusting your wings to find the horizon.
Roots & Wings Poetry by Rowan Evans (written February 18th, 2025)
These streets whisper my name, but I no longer listen,
my roots ache for softer soil, where the sun glistens.
I’ll plant myself where the palms embrace the sea,
then let the wind carry what’s left of me—
a bird unbound, chasing horizons yet unseen.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 