Tag: healing through words

  • Author’s Note

    This poem is written for men who bear invisible burdens—the weight of expectation, stoicism, and silence. Society tells men to endure alone, to mask their pain, to equate vulnerability with weakness. But the cost of silence is immense: fractured hearts, unseen suffering, and violence that festers quietly.

    Silent Weight is a reminder that strength lies not in masking pain, but in confronting it, speaking it, and seeking connection. To the men who carry more than the world sees: you are not alone. You are allowed to speak, to lean, to mend. This poem is for you.

    Rowan Evans


    Illustration of a man beneath a heavy stone archway with cracks of golden light, symbolizing the silent weight of masculinity and the strength found in vulnerability.
    Silent Weight – A poem for men carrying unseen burdens, finding strength in speaking their truth.

    Invocation

    Come closer, reader—
    step into the shadowed space where burdens dwell.
    Hear the quiet ache of unspoken pain,
    the weight carried in silence,
    and witness the courage it takes to stand beneath it.
    This is a poem for the unseen,
    a sanctuary for voices too long restrained.


    Silent Weight
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    In shadows thick with whispered dread,
    A burden rests upon your head.
    You wear a mask, a steel façade,
    Yet cracks run deep beneath the guard.

    They told you, “Men don’t cry or break;
    You stand, endure, for honor’s sake.”
    So silence holds your wounded soul,
    A beast of burden taking its toll.

    Each breath is heavy, laced with fear,
    A voice inside you screaming near.
    You bite your tongue, you bear the strain,
    And drown the weight in quiet pain.

    The world expects you hard as stone,
    To bear your scars and walk alone.
    But even stone erodes with time,
    And silence breeds a darker crime.

    For every hurt, unspoken ache,
    Another soul begins to break.
    In silence, violence grows unseen,
    A shadowed flood where pain has been.

    It’s not weak to break the chain,
    To speak your hurt, to shed the pain.
    The strongest hearts are those that mend,
    Not those that fracture to the end.

    You fear you’ll crumble if you speak,
    That asking help will make you weak.
    But strength resides in honest cries,
    In truth unmasked, no more disguise.

    Before you fall, before despair,
    Reach out, break free, and know repair.
    For asking help will not betray,
    It’s how you shed the silent weight.

    Speak now, before the shadows rise,
    And steal the light from weary eyes.
    You’ll find the strength in every word,
    In being seen, in being heard.


    Benediction

    May those who carry silent weight
    find the courage to speak,
    the strength to ask for support,
    and the grace to be gentle with themselves.
    May every unvoiced ache
    be met with understanding,
    and may no one bear alone what should be shared.
    Speak, and be heard. Stand, and be seen.


    Hot Coals | A Poetic Reflection on Anger, Vulnerability, and Courage
    Hot Coals is a powerful poem exploring the weight of suppressed anger, the courage in vulnerability, and the liberation found in letting go. Written for those struggling under society’s expectations of strength, it’s a call to release pain and embrace emotional freedom.

  • You are a cathedral of fractured glass—
    every pane kissed by catastrophe,
    every color a hymn forged in flame.
    I see the story etched
    in the way you flinch at praise,
    the slight hitch in your breath
    when silence dares to stretch too long.

    You were made not by ease,
    but by impact—
    a mosaic of once-shattered grace.
    I do not look away.
    No, I kneel in reverence.

    Your scars are constellations
    and I have mapped them all—
    tracing the stories in your skin
    like star-charts of survival.
    There is beauty in the broken,
    not despite it, but because.

    So let me be the quiet sky
    you rise into,
    where you are not reduced
    to memory or martyr.
    Let me lift the ruins from your chest,
    name them sacred,
    and hang them like relics
    in the chapel of my care.

    I’ll clear your slate—not to erase,
    but to rest it.
    To archive your ache
    in the folds of my own soul.
    Your memories are safe with me.
    The weight you bore—
    I’ve room for it in my ribs.

    I don’t want to be the shadow
    that steals your sun,
    but the lighthouse
    that stays burning
    when your horizon blurs again.
    Let me be the firmament
    under your tremble,
    a psalm against the silence.

    You don’t have to stumble alone.
    You never did—
    but now,
    you don’t have to believe that lie again.