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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: healing

  • 131 Days: A Journey Through Words, Fire, and Devotion

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is a reflection on persistence, inspiration, and the threads that connect my work over the past year. Each italicized title is a window into the poems that shaped this journey—moments of love, desire, trauma, healing, and devotion.

    At its heart, this is about process as much as outcome: the daily practice of writing, the sparks of muse, and the quiet work done in the late hours when the world is still. It’s also a tribute to those who witness these words—across screens, pages, and hearts—you are part of this ongoing journey too.

    Consider this piece a bridge: between poems, between moments, between the past and the work yet to come.

    A writer’s hands holding a pen over scattered pages of poetry, lit by a warm lamp, evoking quiet inspiration and devotion.
    Late nights, ink-stained fingers, and the quiet companionship of words—where every poem begins.

    131 Days
    (A Journey Through Words, Fire, and Devotion)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been
    so focused—
    over-focused, some say.
    One hundred thirty-one days
    and counting.

    I’ve written with range:
    love, desire, mental health,
    trauma, recovery.
    There’s more, of course,
    but that’s the core.

    I write like
    A Heart Unveiled,
    witnessing the
    Colors of Your Soul.
    My pen
    revealing,
    the Infinity Within.
    As my mind
    drifts free
    in The Hallow Sea.

    My muse,
    my inspiration is—
    A-Woman.
    The vision of beauty,
    an angel on earth—
    a Filipina,
    with fire in her eyes.
    When the world tries
    to put her fire out,
    that is when I
    Cry to the Quiet.
    And why
    I Am
    offering myself
    to her, fully.
    Freely.
    For you see,
    she—
    is Perfectly Imperfect,
    which means…
    she is perfect for me.

    She has shown me,
    that there are
    Timelines Worth Rewriting.
    And your essence,
    I will never forget—
    because
    I Am the Storm That Remembers.

    Late nights, ink-stained fingers,
    the quiet my closest companion.
    For those who witness, across pages and screens,
    you carry a piece of this journey too.
    And still, I write on.

    If you enjoyed this piece and want to check out more of my work, you can click one of the many links scattered throughout the poem itself. They take you to my highest viewed pieces of the year. I am not saying they are my best pieces, just the ones that got the most views. Anyway, you can find more of my work here: [The Library of Ashes]

  • Ghost in My Body – Poem by Rowan Evans | Survival, Mental Health & Emotional Struggle

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is not a cry for help — it’s a confession. It’s the truth about living in a body that feels too heavy, a heart that beats even when I’m too tired to hold it. For anyone who knows what it’s like to rise with no hope, no spark, just sheer stubborn survival — this one is for you. You’re not alone in the mornings that feel impossible. You’re not alone in the weight.

    Ghostly figure with glowing heartbeat, representing emotional struggle and resilience, emerging from darkness.
    “Even when the body feels heavy and the heart refuses rest, the spirit rises — a ghost in its own skin.”

    Ghost in My Body
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I awoke,
    empty of hope.
    Chest tight, eyes wide—
    the world felt
    unbearably heavy.
    I took a minute,
    recalibrated.
    I fix my face
    into something readable,
    something quiet—
    because they’ll look
    straight into my eyes,
    and still ask,
    “But… are you happy?”

    I haven’t really been
    since I was thirteen—
    the year something in me
    stopped blooming.
    Yeah, it’s been
    a lack of smiles,
    since I
    was thirteen.
    The year the light in me
    learned to dim itself.

    It’s been a
    constant struggle,
    as I’ve struggled constantly.
    I struggle to find
    my place.
    I struggle to recognize
    my face.
    Trust me, when I say
    I struggle with everything.
    Like, I don’t want to die,
    but I—
    don’t really want to be alive.
    It’s a struggle
    just to survive.

    It’s a struggle just to survive,
    carrying a body
    that feels heavier
    than I do.
    Dragging a heartbeat
    that won’t quit
    even when I’m tired of holding it.

    And yet—
    every morning,
    somehow,
    I rise.
    Not healed,
    not whole,
    just here.
    Dragging the weight,
    of a heartbeat
    that refuses to stop
    even when I want rest,
    even when I want it to.

    I’m just
    a ghost still trying
    to haunt its own body.

    But still,
    I pull myself upright—
    not because I’m hopeful,
    but because something in me
    refuses to die quietly.
    And maybe one day
    the bloom returns,
    the light rekindles—
    but tonight,
    I just breathe
    and call it survival.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.

  • When Survival Gets Quiet – A Poem About Healing, Pain, and Being Seen

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece came from a place of uncomfortable clarity — the kind that only arrives after you’ve survived enough storms to notice the patterns in the people around you. There’s a strange truth I’ve learned over the years: some people loved me louder when I was breaking than when I was healing. Pain made me poetic, easy to praise, easy to place on a pedestal of tragedy. But healing? Healing is quieter, steadier, less romantic. And somehow, to some people, that made it less worthy of attention.

    I didn’t write this to shame anyone. I wrote it because it’s real — because recovery deserves reverence too, because resilience isn’t any less beautiful than collapse, and because we don’t talk enough about how lonely healing can be.

    This piece is for anyone who’s ever felt more valuable broken than whole. For anyone rebuilding themselves without applause. For anyone learning to exist without having to bleed for validation.

    You are still art.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure in a dim, gothic museum surrounded by cracked statues, symbolizing healing after emotional collapse.
    Even survival can feel quiet in a world that only learned to listen to the sound of breaking.

    When Survival Gets Quiet
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s always been strange to me
    how people praised me louder
    when I was dying inside
    than when I wasn’t.

    And I don’t say this
    to make anyone feel shame—
    it’s just something I’ve noticed
    over time.
    Over a lot of motherfuckin’ time.

    I can think back
    to so many moments
    where I was ready to check out.
    Where the smallest thing
    felt like the final straw.

    And I don’t say that
    to minimize, or erase,
    or make light of the weight
    those moments carried.

    They held me like a museum tragedy—
    a relic of ruin,
    a beautiful collapse.

    But when I finally learned to breathe again,
    their applause softened,
    like my healing made the art
    less valuable.

    Maybe it’s easier to love me
    when I’m bleeding metaphors
    than when I’m quietly rebuilding.

    Maybe survival is too quiet
    for people who only learned
    to listen to the sound
    of breaking.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.

  • Sermon for the Fractured – Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is a meditation on resilience, self-reclamation, and the sanctity of imperfection. I wrote it as a sermon for anyone who has ever felt broken, misfit, or misaligned with the world’s expectations. It’s a reminder that divinity exists in survival, in truth-telling, and in the courage to rebuild oneself repeatedly. For the fractured souls out there: this one’s for you.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure stands in a dimly lit gothic cathedral, bathed in colored light from stained glass, representing resilience and sacred rebellion.
    A sermon for the fractured soul—finding divinity and strength in imperfection.

    Sermon for the Fractured
    Sermon by Rowan Evans

    Every poem I write
    is a sermon for the fractured soul.
    Saint with a pen,
    heathen in the mind.
    I’m a preacher’s child
    gone wild—
    welcome to my church,
    it’s a service for the misfits.

    I crowned myself a deity.
    My divinity
    lives somewhere between
    G-O-D and Lucifer.
    I’m a morningstar, lightbringer.
    Or a shadow
    walking through a holy world.

    Your holy book
    banned my name.
    Heaven doesn’t want me,
    Hell doesn’t either.
    So I made
    Purgatory my kingdom.

    You don’t have to praise me,
    you don’t have to worship.
    I don’t need blind faith—
    for the miracles I create.
    You don’t have to suffer
    to prove a thing—
    your breath is devotion enough.

    You don’t have to
    sell me your soul.
    I will bless you,
    while you remain whole.

    I am not a deity without flaw—
    I’ve been cracked, fractured,
    put back together
    by my own hands.
    I’ve rebuilt myself,
    time and time again.
    So I don’t ask for perfection,
    I ask for confession,
    truth and witness.

    You can find more of my gospel in the Library of Ashes. [The Library of Ashes]

  • Echoes of Reality – A Poetic Reckoning with Memory and Survival

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some experiences leave marks that cannot be erased. Some truths are shouted silently in the shadowed corners of memory.

    Echoes of Reality is my attempt to give voice to a time I was silenced, to the confusion and pain that lingered long after the moments themselves. This piece does not seek comfort or closure—it seeks acknowledgment. It is a testament to survival, to remembering, and to insisting that my reality is my own.

    Read with care, and hold space for the truth it carries.

    Moody, dimly lit room with shadows and a journal, representing reflection on trauma and survival.
    Echoes of Reality – a poetic testament to memory, trauma, and survival.

    Echoes of Reality
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Have you heard somber words spoken,
    and felt the cold touch of trauma?
    Because I know the confusion caused
    by their cold invalidation,
    the questioning of reality,
    like did it really happen—
    the way I’m remembering?

    Their touches, unwanted,
    but that’s not what they’ll tell you,
    gaslighting, rewriting,
    reality to confuse and manipulate,
    to keep you questioning,
    did that really happen—
    the way I’m remembering?

    You try and get away,
    but it follows, always advancing,
    unwanted, it was unwanted,
    but that’s not what they tell you,
    until eventually, even you’ll believe,
    it didn’t really happen—
    the way you’re remembering.

    It’s been years, so why do I still feel them,
    why is my skin not coming clean?
    If it never happened,
    why does it replay in my darkest dreams,
    why does the nightmare keep repeating,
    if it never happened—
    the way I’m remembering?

    I’ve struggled through the dark,
    trying to resurface, but I’m lost here,
    I’m stuck in this place,
    it endlessly replays
    and still, I keep questioning,
    are these even memories?
    But why would I make it up,
    for what?

    My eyes are open, now I see,
    this was my reality,
    it happened, you can’t say it didn’t,
    because it happened to me,
    I lived it.
    I felt it.
    And I know,
    it happened exactly—
    as I’m remembering.

  • From Chaos to Clarity – Poetry on Struggle, Introspection & Growth by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    These paired pieces come from a place of reflection, reckoning, and resilience. Ten Beers is written from the perspective of a younger self, caught in the cycle of self-medication, chaos, and denial. Its repetition mirrors the rituals we create to escape, the desperate attempts to quiet the storm in our own minds.

    Through Clear Eyes is the response, the voice of survival and understanding. It looks back with compassion, honesty, and accountability, confronting past pain while acknowledging growth. Together, they explore addiction, self-destruction, and ultimately, forgiveness—both of oneself and of the ways we survive.

    I offer these poems as a testament to the storms we endure, the patterns we outgrow, and the quiet victories of seeing clearly, even after years of being lost in the haze.

    — Rowan Evans

    “Person overwhelmed by thoughts, surrounded by empty beer cans and abstract swirls of color.”
    Chasing the blackout, quieting the storm within.

    Ten Beers
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I drank ten beers,
    then I drank ten more—
    just trying to escape my mind.
    To numb the pain,
    to quiet the storm inside.
    I drank ten beers,
    then I drank ten more.

    It wasn’t a problem in my eyes,
    I had it all under control.
    I could stop when I wanted—
    I just didn’t want to.
    So I drank and drank,
    then I drank some more.
    I drank ten beers,
    then I drank ten more.

    I chased the blackout,
    just wanted to turn the lights out.
    Quiet the storm raging unseen.
    It’s all in your head. Just don’t be sad.
    If only it were that easy.
    I was drunk every weekend—
    the only way I could be.
    I couldn’t see…
    there were people who needed me.

    I remember waking up,
    cans lined up—
    eighteen, twenty deep.
    I’d stumble to my feet,
    this was weekly, rinse and repeat.
    I drank ten beers,
    then I drank ten more—
    just trying to quiet the storm.

    I poured liquor into whatever cup,
    goal was to get fucked up.
    Chasing the blackout, turning the lights out.
    Cut power. Fade out.
    I thought I was fine,
    thought I was in control—
    but the alcohol had a hold of me.
    I was borderline,
    still telling myself “I’m fine.”
    But I wasn’t.
    I was numbing the pain,
    avoiding everything.
    So I—
    drank ten beers,
    then I drank ten more.

    It was a problem.
    Felt like I was the problem.
    But I was just trying to quiet the storm—
    raging in my head,
    while I whispered,
    “I’m young, just having fun.”

    “Person sitting at a sunlit window, reflecting with clarity and peace.”
    Through introspection, clarity emerges.

    Through Clear Eyes
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    You weren’t having fun,
    you were hurting—
    you just refused to see.
    You numbed yourself too much,
    blurred your own vision,
    slurred your words.

    You were hurting,
    and thought you could fix it
    by getting fucked up.
    I forgive you, but—
    look what we did to us.
    You drank to numb the pain,
    to quiet the storm inside our brain.

    Then I had to fight like hell
    just to feel normal again.
    It was toxic, the way we coped.
    We lashed out, bitter all the time,
    still swearing we were fine.

    Had to make phone calls
    to find missing clothes—
    and you still couldn’t see.
    The problem was me.

    Closing Note

    These pieces reflect a time when alcohol was a way to quiet the storm in my head, a form of self-medication I thought I could control. Through introspection, reflection, and deliberate inner work, my relationship with alcohol has changed. Today, I can drink without chasing blackouts, without using it to numb myself. I write these poems not to glorify past behavior, but to bear witness to it, to understand it, and to acknowledge how far I’ve come.

    — Rowan Evans

    You can find all of my work in my archive [The Library of Ashes].

  • Kintsugi Our Souls Together | Love Poem for the Ruined, the Rising, the Reverent

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This is for the broken and the rising. For the ones who have loved through scars, and shone through shadow. Kintsugi Our Souls Together is a love letter to the beauty in brokenness—and the gold that binds us when we choose to mend, together.

    Illustration of two broken figures repaired with gold veins, floating among stars, representing cosmic love and healing.
    Kintsugi souls: rising holy from the fractures of our past.

    Kintsugi Our Souls Together
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    You say you’re broken.
    Baby—me too.
    Not just cracked,
    but scattered like constellations
    ripped from the sky,
    fragments of light
    drenched in shadow.

    We are star-born ruins—
    cosmic,
    bruised,
    beautiful in our wreckage.
    Galaxies of grief
    swirl behind our eyes,
    but still—
    baby, we shine.

    So let’s gather the remnants,
    each jagged edge,
    each silent scream.
    Let’s stitch our scars
    with molten gold,
    Kintsugi our souls
    until pain becomes pattern,
    and every fracture
    sings with sacred heat.

    I want to know your ache—
    wear it like velvet on my skin,
    learn the shape of your sorrow
    until it fits inside my ribcage.
    We’ll build a throne from bones
    of yesterday’s despair,
    a palace of ash and stars,
    lit by the heavens
    that watched us burn.

    No crowns needed.

    Just you and me—
    flawed,
    fierce,
    whole in our brokenness.
    Treasures made
    from what the world discarded.
    Proof that ruin
    can still rise—
    holy.

    So let the world call us ruins—
    Let them say we should’ve shattered.
    They don’t see the gold in our veins,
    the way we gleam—
    Kintsugi souls…
    even in the dark.

    Visit The Library of Ashes to find more of my work…

  • Hot Coals: A Poetic Reflection on Anger, Vulnerability, and Courage

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I wrote Hot Coals for the men who’ve been told that strength is silence, and that showing emotion makes you weak. As someone who has carried fire inside themselves for a long time, I know firsthand how heavy it can be to hold anger and pain alone. Holding it like hot coals doesn’t make you stronger—it only burns you from within. Vulnerability is not weakness. It is courage. And letting yourself feel, fully, is the bravest thing you can do.

    Hand holding glowing hot coals, symbolizing the burden of suppressed anger and emotional release.
    Holding anger like hot coals scars the heart. Hot Coals by Rowan Evans explores the courage in vulnerability and the liberation of letting go.

    Hot Coals
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    They tell you to clench your fists, hold tight—
    Let the fire burn bright, don’t let in the light.
    Anger, rage—your only currency,
    The world’s measure of your masculinity.

    But no one warned you of the burn,
    The searing pain you never learn,
    That holding anger like hot coals in hand
    Scars the heart in ways you can’t withstand.

    They say to stand tall, to never cry,
    Keep your voice low, don’t ask why.
    But the flames flicker and twist inside,
    A storm of feelings you try to hide.

    Each coal a bitter word unsaid,
    A wound you carry in your head.
    It singes, it smolders, beneath your skin,
    A quiet battle you’ll never win.

    Let go, I whisper, of this deadly fire—
    There’s more to feel, more to aspire.
    Rage will only leave you burned,
    A lesson you’ve yet to learn.

    There’s beauty in tears, in the gentle sigh,
    In love’s soft touch and the freedom to cry.
    To release the coals, let your heart unfold,
    Is the bravest thing, not a story untold.

    Feel the coolness of the rain on your face,
    The warmth of peace, of a softer grace.
    Embrace the spectrum, let it flow—
    You’re not just a vessel for anger’s glow.

    For holding on to fire won’t make you strong;
    It only burns, and for far too long.
    Set down the coals, let them fade to ash,
    And rise from the flames, free at last.

    If you’d like to explore more of my work, you can find it in The Library of Ashes.

  • Temporary Emotions: A Poem on Depression, Healing & Hope

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’m writing this for myself as much as for anyone else. Depression is a beast that convinces me not to exist, that twists my sadness into rage and makes even the smallest things unbearable. I need this reminder: these feelings are heavy, but they are not permanent.

    Right now, I’m in the thick of depression—the kind that makes everything feel heavier than it should, the kind that tells you nothing will ever change. It’s a hell of a beast, whispering permanence into what I know are only temporary storms.

    This poem is me fighting back against that lie. A reminder to myself that emotions are not stone; they are waves. They crash, they recede, they come again—but none of them last forever.

    If you’re reading this and carrying something heavy too, know that you’re not alone in it. These are temporary emotions. Even when it feels impossible to believe, the tide does turn.

    A surreal twilight garden with lanterns and dark roses, symbolizing depression and the fleeting nature of emotions.
    Even the heaviest emotions are temporary—like shadows, they fade with the dawn.

    Temporary Emotions
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    In the garden of feelings, where shadows bend and sway,
    Petals of joy and sorrow bloom, then fall away.
    A riot of colors, fleeting, alive—
    Whispers of truth hum beneath the hive.

    Emotions are lanterns, trembling with light,
    Flickering through darkness, fragile as night.
    They waver, they vanish, dissolve in the air—
    Here for a heartbeat, then gone without care.

    Do not carve choices in unyielding stone
    When tides of the heart shift and pull you alone.
    Bend, stumble, sway, but do not yield—
    Even shadows retreat when dawn is revealed.

    Feelings crash like waves on jagged, dreaming shores;
    Grief gnaws the marrow, hope rises and soars.
    Night bows to dawn in its ghostly fire,
    Ash gives way to a tender desire.

    Though emotions may bind with chains cold and tight,
    Time’s patient fingers restore your sight.
    Let them flow like rivers in spring—
    Do not dam the heart; let truth take wing.

    Seek a friend, a page, a mirror to speak,
    Pour your pulse into ink, let your spirit leak.
    Feelings, like seasons, shimmer, then flee;
    The storm may roar, but it teaches to be.

    Step into the tide, feel its swell and its pull;
    The ebb is as sacred as the full.
    Remember, dear heart, this gentle decree:
    All that you feel will one day set you free.

    In this shifting garden, where shadows and sun entwine,
    Each fleeting heartbeat can burn, can shine.
    Ride the currents, let the day sway—
    Tomorrow blooms anew in its spectral ballet.

    Closing Note

    If you’re reading this and carrying the same weight, know this: we don’t have to conquer the beast today. We just have to outlast it. These storms will pass, and when they do, we’ll still be here—tired, maybe, but alive. And sometimes, that is enough.

  • You’re Not Alone | Rowan Evans — A Poetic Promise of Hope & Support

    Rowan Evans

    🌒 Invocation
    For the Wounded and Weary

    Come, you who ache quietly,
    you who carry grief like a second skin.
    Enter this space —
    not to be fixed,
    but to be witnessed.
    This is not a cure,
    but a candle.
    Let it flicker for you.

    Pastel sunrise breaking through grey clouds over a misty landscape, symbolizing hope and solace.
    Hope shines brightest through the darkest clouds — ‘You’re Not Alone,’ a poem by Rowan Evans.

    You’re Not Alone
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    In the pastel shades of a world painted grey,
    I see you standing, lost, in the fray.
    When the weight of your sorrow feels too much to bear,
    Know I’m here with you, always, I swear.

    Through the storms that rage, the endless rain,
    When your heart feels heavy, suffocated by pain,
    I’ll be your shelter, your place to rest,
    When you feel you’ve given all, I’ll give my best.

    You’re not alone in this shadowed night,
    Together we’ll chase away the fear, ignite the light.
    For every tear that falls, I’ll catch it in my hand,
    And plant a seed of hope where despair used to stand.

    When the world feels too sharp, too jagged to touch,
    And even breathing feels like asking too much,
    Know that I’m here, a whisper, a friend,
    A quiet presence with an ear to lend.

    I’ll shoulder your pain, take some of the load,
    Walk beside you on this harrowing road.
    When the clouds seem too thick and the sun’s lost its glow,
    Remember my voice, my promise: you’re not alone.

    In the darkest hours when your soul feels small,
    I’ll be in your corner, catch you when you fall.
    For even when you feel you’re at the end of your fight,
    I’ll be the flame that rekindles your light.

    So, lean on me, friend, and trust in this bond,
    We’ll walk through the rain, from dusk until dawn.
    Together, we’ll face whatever may come,
    You’re not alone—you’re never on your own.

    🌓 Benediction
    For the Ones Still Holding On

    Go now with the knowing:
    You are not too much.
    You are not too broken.
    You are not alone.
    And even when your hands shake,
    you are still worthy of being held.
    Let the poem walk with you awhile.

    Read Next (Suggestions)

    [Tip the Chair] — Neo-Gothic Confessional Poem
    [The Gospel According to the Girl in the Graveyard Dress] — Neo-Gothic Confessional Poem
    [The Hopeless Romantic Wears Armor] — Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Poem
    [Luminescence &  Shadow: A Forbidden Litany] — A Neo-Gothic Confessional Narrative Poem
    [A-Woman (Confessional at the Altar of Her)] — A Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Poem

    Or explore the full archive in [The Library of Ashes]—and if your own confession aches to be written, [commission a custom poem here].

    NGCR25 at checkout to get 25% off your ‘request’…