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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: healing journey

  • The Mind’s Winter: A Poem About Emotional Withdrawal, Overthinking, and Missing Someone

    Rowan Evans

    This wasn’t planned as part of the current sequence.
    Some things just need to be written–and shared–when they happen.

    Author’s Note

    There are patterns we don’t always notice until we’ve lived them more than once.

    The same thoughts.
    The same timing.
    The same quiet retreat inward.

    The Mind’s Winter comes from recognizing one of those cycles in real time–watching myself disappear into my own head, knowing it’s happening, and not always knowing how to stop it.

    It’s strange, being both the one experiencing something and the one observing it. To understand the “why,” but still feel pulled into it anyway.

    This piece isn’t about solving that pattern.

    It’s about naming it.

    About acknowledging the way overwhelm can turn inward, how distance can grow even when you don’t want it to, and how sometimes the things that matter most are the very things that scare us into retreat.

    And maybe, in recognizing the cycle…

    there’s a chance to break it.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure stands in a quiet winter landscape, surrounded by bare trees and falling snow, symbolizing emotional withdrawal and introspection.
    Sometimes the cold isn’t outside—it’s the space we retreat into when everything becomes too much.

    The Mind’s Winter
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    February 8th, 2026—
    I got sick again.
    It happens every year
    like clockwork.
    It starts with the headache,
    caused by being overwhelmed.

    It starts slowly,
    then snowballs
    into more.

    You see, this period of time—
    it usually comes after
    what I tend to call
    the mind’s winter.

    I slip into a deep void
    of thought.

    January 8th…
    that’s the date.

    That’s when I drift inside.
    I get lost in my mind,
    and I stay there—
    one month—I’m gone.
    Lost in thought.

    One month
    leading up to my “big day,”
    the one they say
    should celebrate me.

    But I don’t see it that way.
    It’s just another day.

    And usually,
    I bounce back.
    It’s quick…

    but this?

    This feels like an attack—
    one month in my head,
    two weeks sick and then?

    I broke my glasses—
    vision—
    I lost access.

    And the longer I’m gone,
    the more I pull away,
    even as I—

    want to stay.

    You know what
    the worst part is?

    The worst part is—
    that I know why.

    I know why I do it…
    why I pull away.

    I’ve said the reason
    a hundred times,
    in nearly as many rhymes.
    It’s because you meant
    too much to me.
    I got scared and retreated
    into me.

    So here it is—
    March 21st,
    and I—

    I haven’t spoken to you
    since February 6th,
    and if I’m honest—

    I miss you.

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

  • Weathered – A Poem About Growth, Fear, and Facing Yourself

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Weathered lives in the spaces between awareness and change.

    It’s easy to recognize patterns in ourselves–the ways we retreat, the ways we protect, the ways we leave before we can be left. It’s harder to sit with them. Harder still to change them.

    This piece isn’t about having the answers. It’s about standing in the storm anyway. Letting it hit, letting it string things back, and choosing not to run from it.

    Growth doesn’t always feel like progress.
    Sometimes it just feels like staying.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person standing in the rain facing a storm, symbolizing emotional endurance and personal growth
    Sometimes growth looks like standing still in the storm.

    Weathered
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I sit alone,
    asking questions—
    why am I like this?
    Why do I retreat
    inside my mind,
    when it’s you
    I’m trying to find?

    I mean—
    I know it’s because
    you mean too much
    to me.

    So I panic.

    I move inward,
    closing shutters
    to the world.

    I don’t want you
    to see me—
    not like this,
    not when you
    can perceive me.

    Because to be perceived
    for me,
    is to be left behind.
    It’s happened
    more than one time.

    So I leave first.
    I leave before it hurts.

    Again I ask—
    why am I like this?
    Why can’t I fight this?

    I just want to shake it,
    stop feeling like a mistake,
    be better.
    But better doesn’t seem
    to be in the cards for me…

    So I’ve got to learn.
    I’ve got to change
    some things—

    I need to pull myself
    back together,
    because this—

    this is a storm.
    A storm I want to stand in,
    feel the wind batter me,
    let the rain strip me bare,
    and still—
    I will weather it.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [To Whom It May Concern…] (3/20)
    A raw exploration of vulnerability, fear, and self-sabotage—this poem captures the struggle between wanting to be seen and the instinct to hide.

    [Same Room (Emotionally)] (3/22)
    Can you miss someone you’ve never met? This poem explores emotional connection beyond physical distance and what it means to truly feel seen.

    [No Parachute] (3/23)
    A poetic reflection on falling in love without hesitation—raw, uncertain, and without a safety net.

    [When I Started to Fall for You] (3/24)
    A lyrical exploration of love’s intensity—how connection grows, transforms, and reshapes the way we experience the world.

    [Bad Habit] (3/25)
    A powerful reflection on repetitive thought patterns, emotional loops, and the moment of realizing you’re stuck inside your own mind.

    [Same Sky] (3/26)
    A poetic meditation on longing, distance, and the quiet desire to share the same space—even when worlds apart.

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

  • Not Begging, Just Tired – A Raw Poem About Faith, Identity, and Emotional Exhaustion

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Not Begging, Just Tired lives in that quiet space between breaking and continuing.

    This piece isn’t about giving up–it’s about what comes after the questions, when certainty fades and all that’s left  is awareness. It explores the tension between faith and doubt, between the voice that offers an easy escape and the part of us that still chooses to struggle, to grow, to stay human.

    There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from weakness, but from enduring–feeling everything, questioning everything, and still moving forward without clear answers. This poem sits in that space.

    It’s not a resolution.
    It’s not a victory.

    It’s a choice.

    To stay.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person kneeling in a dim room with soft light behind them, symbolizing emotional exhaustion and quiet resilience.
    Not begging—just tired, and still choosing to stay.

    Not Begging, Just Tired
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m on my knees again,
    begging—please again.
    My brain freezes,
    and I get lost within.

    Confronting sins.

    Am I who I want to be?
    I mean it—truthfully.
    Am I exactly who I want to be,
    or just who I became?

    And the devil whispers…

    He speaks to me,
    I hear him clearly.
    He says he’ll set me free—
    no need to beg or plead.

    But I don’t want ease.
    It’s the challenge I need.

    What comes easily
    is never worth the cost.
    What’s a dream
    if it means
    you lose your humanity?

    God… if you’re listening—
    can you hear me whispering?

    I’m not begging,
    I won’t plead,
    but I’m getting tired
    of having to bleed.

    I’ll be honest—
    I’m not sure if you’re real,
    but I think I used to feel you
    when things got too heavy,
    when life felt a little too rough.

    Back before
    life kind of fucked me up.

    There’s always
    a before and an after.
    Before—there was laughter.

    But that was last chapter.
    This one’s been
    a little too heavy.

    To leave?
    I’ve been a little too ready.

    I don’t mean
    leave permanently—
    I just want to be
    in a different scene.

    Somewhere I don’t feel
    at home through a screen.

    Have you felt
    out of place
    in a place
    that was supposed
    to be your home?

    And still—
    you felt alone…

    Not in a way
    that filled you with despair,
    but in a way
    that made you more aware.

    I’m not begging—
    just tired…
    and still choosing
    to stay.

    [Calculating Profits]
    Calculating Profits (Ledger of Lives) is a raw anti-war poem confronting how modern conflict is often reduced to statistics, strategy, and spectacle. Through stark imagery and direct language, Rowan Evans challenges the “us vs. them” narrative and reminds readers that behind every number in war’s ledger is a human life.

  • Walking Memory Lane Before My Birthday | A Poem About Healing, Loss, and Becoming

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    With my birthday approaching, I found myself walking down memory lane—whether I wanted to or not. Birthdays have a way of doing that. They pull you backward through moments you thought were buried, faces you once trusted, versions of yourself you barely recognize anymore.

    This piece came from that forced reflection: tracing where I started, who I opened my heart to, what broke me, and how I learned to survive by drifting instead of healing. It’s about the memories that arrive uninvited, the lessons learned too late, and the quiet realization that growth isn’t always graceful.

    I’m not writing this from a place of resolution—just awareness. This is me taking inventory of the pieces that built me, the scars that shaped me, and the distance between who I was and who I’m becoming.

    Sometimes looking back isn’t about regret. Sometimes it’s about understanding how you’re still standing.

    Misty cobblestone street at night with glowing street lamps, symbolizing reflection, memory, and emotional healing.
    Walking memory lane—where every light holds a name, and every shadow remembers.

    Memory Lane Has No Exit
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been trapped inside my mind
    for a while now.
    I was wandering along
    memory lane,
    going over
    everything.

    Street lamps line
    cobblestone streets,
    each one named
    after a time
    or place.

    I feel the mist
    of missed
    opportunities,
    brush across
    my face.
    Reminding me
    of things
    I wish
    I would have said.

    I feel the electro—
    static shock,
    as it climbs
    up my spine.
    Until it touches
    the base of my mind,
    and every memory
    floods back.

    Every loss, every victory faced—
    every blame misplaced,
    baseless claim, just to tear me down.
    Every time I opened up,
    and they vanished—
    Poof! No ghost,
    left me unhaunted.
    Then they taunted,
    what the fuck—

    I told her things
    I never shared,
    she said she cared,
    that she was there.
    Twisted words,
    like a knife in my back—
    used every secret shared
    against me,
    every word, a weapon it became.

    I guess that’s why I faded…
    Drifted… never looking for attachment.
    I put my head in the clouds,
    took to the sky. I’m Peter Pan,
    I never landed.

    Well, I guess I never healed.
    Not truly. Guess I just became,
    a little unruly. Hard headed,
    too stubborn to see.
    I wasn’t healing, not really.

    And just as I pull back,
    from that—
    another memory attacks.
    Flies in
    from out of nowhere,
    hits me in the face
    and suddenly,
    I’m back in that place.

    Nineteen.
    I thought she was a queen,
    with her eyes of green.
    Serene, until I saw the rot underneath.
    Twenty-one.
    I fell for her, or so I thought
    and she said she felt the same.
    And then she called me
    by his name.

    At twenty-four,
    there was more.
    A girl that I adored—
    thought we were
    moving toward
    something.
    We talked a lot,
    so I opened up.
    I thought I was safe,
    but she pulled back,
    and disappeared.

    Two weeks.
    I didn’t hear a peep.
    Then the messages started,
    secrets shared in confidence.
    She told them all,
    and felt no guilt.

    It was from—
    these pieces,
    I was built.

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