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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: healing

  • My Nightmare | A Poem About Love, Distance, Hope, and Kintsugi

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some nightmares aren’t about monsters.

    Sometimes the nightmare is waking up and realizing that the person you want beside you is standing beneath a completely different sky.

    My Nightmare comes from that place—the uneasy space between memory and hope, between what once felt shared and what now feels impossibly far away. It is a poem about distance, but not only the physical kind. There is distance between perspectives, between hearts, between the lives we imagine and the lives we are actually living.

    Still, even nightmares have endings.

    Sometimes you wake up before they become permanent.

    And sometimes, even while dreaming, you can still see a little gold threaded through the cracks.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two distant figures stand on separate shores beneath different moons, connected across the dark ocean by faint golden and platinum threads.
    Two shores. Two skies. One horizon—and enough gold left to believe they might meet there.

    My Nightmare
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    This is my nightmare.

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we see is different—
    your moon from my sky
    is missing—
    the sun no longer shines,
    it’s dimming—

    I don’t see the spark anymore—
    don’t see the light in the dark anymore.
    What do I even I write for?
    I lost my purpose—think I did it on purpose,
    it’s like I can’t rhyme anymore,
    no clock, no watch, can’t tell time anymore.

    This is my nightmare.

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we see is different—
    my moon is sickly pale,
    but yours seems fine though—
    the sun doesn’t provide light,
    it’s gotten real low—

    in times before, this is when
    I would Kintsugi the heart—
    but there’s not much heart left,
    it’s all gold—soft metal,
    softer soul—stayed warm,
    when the world grew cold.

    This is my nightmare.

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we see is different—
    when we used to be,
    two pieces the puzzle
    was missing—
    the sun in the sky was fine,
    but it dimmed in our shine—

    I’ve spent time doing Kintsugi
    on your heart too—it was hard not to,
    gold and platinum weaved through—
    I really did see you, flaws and all—
    and all I saw was a gift from God.

    I still don’t think—
    I was wrong.

    But that was my nightmare…

    You and I across the distance,
    the view that we saw was different—
    but I still see the gold threads that connect,
    the platinum hope on the horizon,
    that one day the distance will close—
    and we’ll walk the same shore,
    it won’t be—

    mine and yours.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Dreaming Wrong]
    A familiar dream becomes unsettling when the ocean becomes a pond, the tide disappears, the moon loses its reflection, and nothing feels quite like it belongs. Dreaming Wrong explores the uncanny feeling of finding yourself inside a dream that looks familiar—but feels like someone else’s.

    [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.

    [Beach to Beach]
    A dream becomes a journey between familiar shores and unfamiliar cities in Beach to Beach (How I Get There), a poem about imagined travel, ocean crossings, longing, and the places we hope to someday reach while awake.

    [Where the Metaphors Lead]
    Some truths are easier to write than they are to say aloud. “Where the Metaphors Lead” explores the quiet space between dreams, confession, and the courage it takes to let another person know how deeply they’ve become woven into your inner world.

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

  • Undead Symphony (Remix) — A Poem About Apathy, Empathy & Emotional Isolation

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems don’t need to be abandoned when we outgrow the person who originally wrote them.

    Sometimes they need to be revisited.

    Undead Symphony (Remix) returns to a poem I originally wrote on June 13, 2024. The original was written from a place I understood intimately: feeling perpetually misplaced, overlooked, and emotionally exhausted while still carrying an enormous capacity for empathy underneath the numbness.

    The title came from that contradiction.

    An undead thing is neither fully alive nor truly dead. A symphony, meanwhile, is full of movement, emotion, tension, and sound. Put those ideas together and you get something that feels very close to the emotional state I was trying to describe: a person who can feel deeply while simultaneously becoming distant from the world around them.

    That contradiction is still here in 2026.

    What changed is the way I approach it.

    The remix gives the poem more room to breathe. I broke apart lines that had previously been compressed together, allowing certain thoughts to linger rather than rushing past them. I also sharpened some of the imagery and cadence, particularly around the relationship between solitude, apathy, and empathy.

    The original poem said what I was feeling.

    The remix feels more like I understand why I was saying it.

    And that distinction matters.

    I have spent a lot of time in my writing exploring darkness—not because darkness is all I have, but because I have always been fascinated by the strange things that can survive inside it. Undead Symphony is one of those pieces.

    Apathy and empathy shouldn’t fit together.

    Yet somehow, they do.

    One protects the heart by making the world feel distant.

    The other keeps reaching toward it anyway.

    That tension is the symphony.

    The speaker may feel undead, but the music never actually stops.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure sits beneath a moonlit window as ghostly music and shadows surround a small warm light.
    Somewhere between apathy and empathy, something inside me keeps making music.

    Undead Symphony (Remix)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans
    [written on July 23, 2026]

    It was always the wrong place,
    wrong time—

    I was always second best,
    never first place—

    Never the one to win the race,
    I was always the one they laughed at,
    never with—

    always the one that
    when they were gone—

    never missed.

    So I grew cold and distant
    like far-off summer nights,
    yearned for on cold winter mornings.

    And sometimes—

    it still feels hard to breathe,
    like a shadow in the light,
    fading beneath.

    I never was one for faith,
    I never believed,
    no thoughts and no prayers—

    because why should anybody care?

    In a crowd I felt alone,
    a silent voice,
    an empty phone.

    It’s apathy—
    and I pair it with my empathy.
    An odd dance of light and dark,
    within me.

    It’s beauty in the darkness,
    an undead symphony.

    But still—I dream of a place,
    where I’m more than just a face.
    A spark in the night,
    a fleeting glimpse
    of warmth in the cold,
    and strength in the struggle.

    I remember moments—
    fleeting and rare,
    of laughter shared,
    of someone who cared.

    Brief as they were,
    they lit up my sky,

    A reminder that even shadows can try.

    Yet—
    I return to the solitude I know,
    where apathy is my only show.

    But my empathy,
    a hidden grace—

    whispers of a longing for a different place.

    It’s a contradiction,
    a twisted art—
    to feel so much,
    with a guarded heart.

    An undead symphony,
    a haunting tune—

    a dance of shadows beneath the moon.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Fallen Angel’s Reckoning (Remix)]
    Fallen Angel’s Reckoning (Remix) revisits a 2024 poem about heartbreak, broken promises, and falling from an imagined heaven, transforming its original ending into a darker meditation on resilience, self-reclamation, and learning to fly with broken wings.

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

  • Fallen Angel’s Reckoning (Remix) — A Poem About Heartbreak, Rebirth & Reclaiming Yourself

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes an old poem doesn’t need to be left in the past.

    Sometimes you have to return to it after you’ve changed.

    Fallen Angel’s Reckoning (Remix) revisits a poem I originally wrote on June 6, 2024. The original was already telling a story I understood well: love that promised forever, a fall from an imagined heaven, and the painful process of reclaiming yourself after the promise disappears.

    But I was a different writer when I wrote it.

    And, more importantly, I was a different person.

    The 2026 version isn’t meant to erase the original. It is a conversation with it.

    I kept the central imagery—the angel, Lucifer, the fall from heaven, the halo, the darkness, the broken vow—because those symbols still belong to the emotional architecture of the piece. But I wanted to push the mythology further this time. Icarus enters the story. The fall becomes more physical, more violent, more deliberate. The speaker isn’t simply descending from something that once felt like heaven; they are plummeting from it.

    And then there is the ending.

    In 2024, I wrote about newfound wings.

    In 2026, I wrote about broken wings.

    That change matters to me.

    Because strength doesn’t always mean becoming untouched by what happened. Sometimes you keep the scars. Sometimes you keep the broken pieces. Sometimes you discover that you can still fly without first repairing everything that hurt you.

    The angel doesn’t become an angel again.

    They don’t return to the heaven they lost.

    They don’t need the person who made them feel divine to give them their identity back.

    They become something else.

    A fallen angel who embraces the fallen.

    The broken.

    The free.

    That is what this remix ultimately became: not a poem about getting back what was lost, but about discovering that losing it didn’t mean losing yourself.

    I didn’t rewrite the 2024 version because it was wrong.

    I rewrote it because I’ve had two more years to understand the fall.

    And sometimes the person who wrote the first poem deserves to hear what the person you became has learned since then.

    — Rowan Evans

    A fallen angel with broken wings stands among the ruins of a shattered heavenly realm beneath dark clouds and a distant light.
    I don’t need unbroken wings to fly. I just need to remember that they were mine before anyone promised me heaven.

    Fallen Angel’s Reckoning (Remix)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans
    [written July 23th, 2026]

    I remember when you said forever,
    but forever never came, 
    so I fell like Lucifer,
    from the heavens down I tumbled.
    Returned your love,
    played your game—
    once an angel in your eyes,
    now in darkness I crumbled. 

    Your promises were wings that lifted me high, 
    but they melted away, when I reached the sun—
    just like Icarus, the light was my undoing.
    It wasn’t just a fall, I was plummeting…
     
    a fallen star,
    cast from the sky, 
    now I walk in shadows,
    where our love met its end. 

    Like Lucifer—I embraced the night, 
    wandering through realms of regret and pain, 
    I shed my halo,
    lost my light, 
    no longer an angel,
    in your eyes or in my name. 

    Yet in this darkness,
    a new path unfurls—

    I find strength in the ashes of our broken vow, 
    rising from the ruins of our shattered world.
     
    I reclaim my soul,
    I’m reborn here and now. 

    No longer bound by your empty decree—
     
    I soar with broken wings, 
    embracing the fallen,
    the broken, the free,
    a fallen angel finding strength
    I never knew I’d own.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [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.

    [The Monster in the Margins]
    Drawing inspiration from horror icons like Michael Myers, Ghostface, Freddy Krueger, and Pennywise, this poem explores the darker side of creativity—where inspiration becomes an unstoppable force lurking just beyond the edge of the page.

    [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.

    [The Unkindness Descends]
    “The Unkindness Descends” is a Gothic symbolic poem exploring collapse, transformation, and the unsettling experience of being witnessed during moments of unraveling. Through raven imagery, ambiguity, and ritualistic atmosphere, the poem invites multiple interpretations—spiritual, psychological, ominous, or transformative.

    [Gospel in Crimson]
    When writing becomes ritual and love becomes devotion, the line between creation and worship begins to blur. Gospel in Crimson explores obsession, artistry, and the sacred act of expression.

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

  • Poet’s Curse — A Poem About Heartbreak, Attachment & Letting Go

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There is a particular kind of heartbreak that doesn’t have a villain.

    Sometimes nobody betrayed you.

    Nobody lied.

    Nobody promised you something they couldn’t give.

    Sometimes someone simply exists, speaks to you, makes you feel something—and your heart decides to build an entire mythology around it.

    That is where Poet’s Curse came from.

    I’ve joked before about having a poet’s curse: the tendency to fall into feelings quickly, to hear a little beauty in someone’s voice and suddenly find myself wading into the waves after it. But beneath the joke is something I’ve had to become more honest about.

    Sometimes my heartbreak is partly mine.

    Not because I was wrong to feel what I felt, but because I have a habit of giving pieces of myself away before I’ve figured out whether there is somewhere safe for them to land.

    The person in this poem didn’t necessarily do anything wrong. She didn’t promise me forever. She didn’t lead me somewhere just to abandon me. She talked—and I listened. I heard a siren’s song, and
    I chose to wade into the water.

    So this isn’t a poem about blaming her.

    It’s about looking at myself afterward and admitting something uncomfortable:

    I learned how to hold on long before I learned how to let go.

    And maybe that’s the real curse.

    Not that I love too deeply.

    Not that I feel too much.

    But that once I give someone a piece of my heart, I don’t always know how to take my hands away from the fire.

    Sometimes the only way forward is to stop calling that weakness a curse and start learning the skill I never had—

    how to let go without becoming less capable of love.

    — Rowan Evans

    A fountain pen and open notebook beside dark ocean waves while glowing fragments of a crimson heart drift away.
    Sometimes the hardest thing to learn isn’t how to love—it’s how to let go of what you’ve already given away.

    Poet’s Curse
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Here we go again
    it’s another season of sin,
    the poet’s back
    heartbroken with a pen.

    Yeah, went and fuckin’
    did it again—

    it’s my fault
    my heart is cracked,
    with pieces missing.

    You see, I give them away
    too freely, it’s such a pain
    to be me, I get hooked
    too easily—

    she did nothing wrong,
    she didn’t lead me on, just talked
    and I heard a siren’s song—

    I waded into the waves,
    prayed for things to change.

    Pardon the moment of slowness,
    give me a moment while I own this
    and take accountability for my part
    in breaking my heart.

    It’s a poet’s curse—

    I only learned how to hold on.
    I never learned how to let go,
    my feelings and emotion
    like hot coals in my hands.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [When I Fall]
    When I Fall is a vulnerable poem about loving without reservation, feeling everything deeply, and refusing to make the heart smaller just because wholehearted love can sometimes lead to loneliness and pain.

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

  • You Are Perfect | An Encouraging Poem About Self-Worth and Self-Acceptance

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems are meant to be complicated. This isn’t one of them.

    I wrote You Are Perfect as a reminder that our flaws don’t cancel our worth. We spend so much time measuring ourselves against impossible standards or letting other people decide what we’re worth that we forget something simple: being imperfect is part of being human.

    This poem isn’t saying you’ll never struggle or never doubt yourself. It’s saying those struggles don’t make you less deserving of love, respect, or compassion.

    If these words found you on a difficult day, I hope you borrow them until you can believe them for yourself.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person standing confidently at sunrise as flowers bloom around them, symbolizing self-worth and resilience.
    Your flaws don’t diminish your worth—they’re part of the story that makes you uniquely you.

    You Are Perfect
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Dear,
    whoever needs
    to hear this—

    you’re worth it,
    flaws and all—
    you’re perfect.

    So don’t let others
    tear you down,
    and tell you
    what your worth is.

    Keep your chin up—
    even when it’s hard.

    Don’t let the spectators
    see you sweat.
    Don’t let them see the tears,
    or the weight on your neck.

    Because not everyone
    knows how to be a witness—
    sometimes they don’t
    have your best in mind.

    They want to see you fail,
    they want to see you small.
    So keep your chin up,
    and stand tall—

    because it’s like I said
    in lines three through six:

    Hear this—

    you are worth it,
    with your flaws and all—

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Human Rorschach]
    Sometimes we’re less a fixed person than an inkblot—our meaning changing with every set of eyes that looks at us. Human Rorschach explores perception, identity, and the ways our own experiences shape what we believe we see in others.

    [A Rose in the Ashes]
    Lost within a forest where every leaf becomes a memory, the speaker follows darkness instead of fleeing from it, discovering that healing isn’t found at the end of the tunnel—but in facing the past long enough to notice a single rose blooming through the ashes.

    [Where the Metaphors Lead]
    Some truths are easier to write than they are to say aloud. “Where the Metaphors Lead” explores the quiet space between dreams, confession, and the courage it takes to let another person know how deeply they’ve become woven into your inner world.

    [Through My View]
    No two people experience the world the same way. Through My View is a reflective free verse poem exploring perspective, imagination, and the impossibility of fully seeing through another person’s eyes.

    [Just Human]
    Just Human is a reflective free verse poem about seeing people before borders, choosing empathy over division, and finding home in our shared humanity rather than on a map.

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

  • A Rose in the Ashes | A Gothic Poem About Memory, Healing & Hope

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems feel less like they’re written and more like they’re discovered.

    A Rose in the Ashes came from following an image rather than an outline. One symbol led to another until the poem became a journey through memory itself—through forgotten moments, lingering wounds, recurring dreams, and the quiet realization that healing doesn’t happen by avoiding the past.

    The forest in this poem isn’t meant to be a literal place. It’s the landscape of memory, where some experiences remain vivid while others decay with time. The trees, the tunnel, the moon, the bay, and finally the rose all became landmarks within that emotional terrain.

    The final image—a single rose blooming through ashes—reminded me that even after devastation, beauty doesn’t disappear forever. Sometimes it simply waits beneath the surface until we’re ready to notice it.

    — Rowan Evans

    A single red rose grows through gray ashes beneath a misty forest illuminated by moonlight, symbolizing hope emerging from painful memories.
    Sometimes healing doesn’t appear as a blazing light at the end of the tunnel.

    Sometimes it’s a single rose, quietly blooming where you thought only ashes remained.

    A Rose in the Ashes
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I wander through the mist and fog,
    wondering if I’ve gotten myself lost.
    The trees are thick with sickly green leaves,
    and the air is too thick, it’s hard to breathe.
    Every step feels borrowed,
    like the ground isn’t sure
    it wants to hold me.

    It’s like with every step
    the ground shifts a little to the left,
    until nothing feels right.

    It’s like I’ve walked
    to the end of the tunnel,
    but I didn’t find the light.

    I keep walking, stumbling along—
    the dark swallows me whole
    and then spits me out.
    I hit the ground and roll to a stop
    on the edge of a fifty foot drop.

    That’s when I see it,
    something moving between the trees—

    not a creature,
    but a feeling—

    the sense that I’m being asked
    to keep going
    even when I don’t know why.

    Maybe it’s because
    I didn’t find the light
    at the end of the tunnel,
    not because I failed—
    but because the journey isn’t done.

    The light signifies the end.

    No light means the journey continues,
    so I keep moving through—
    the streets that I walk in sleep,
    the moment I return to my bones,
    or a war with gods to ease the pain.

    Yeah, I followed the footprints
    to the water’s edge,
    I stared across at the coast
    on the other side of silence.

    And even from a distance,
    I was able to trace
    the moon across the heavens,
    before it became suspended over the bay—
    its reflection trembling across the dark water,
    a mirror to the tremor in my chest.

    But I couldn’t stay still for long—
    I had to keep moving on.

    So I ran—

    bolted for the tree line,
    tripped and stumbled in
    and my eyes caught the way the light
    pierced the canopy—

    the light—

    that’s what I’d been chasing
    this whole time,
    not at the end of the tunnel—
    but above my head,
    an idea—

    my eyes drift toward the sky,
    and that’s when I see—

    the leaves on these trees
    are not leaves,
    they are memories—
    some bright and vivid,
    others a sickly shade of green.

    Those are memories forgot,
    memories left to rot.
    But here’s the truth of this plot:

    some memories fade—
    whether you hold on or not,
    and some become rooted
    through pain, an environment
    permanently changed.

    And that’s what I saw…

    trees with leaves
    showing things—
    I thought long forgotten.
    I was more surprised by that,
    than the fact that so many trees
    looked rotten.

    I could feel the tears
    touch the corners of my eyes—
    the air was thick again,
    humid and suffocating.
    There was a tremor in my chest,
    and knees were weak—
    with every step my bones were quaking,
    like the earth was shaking.

    I stumbled and fell to my knees,
    head bowed—
    in shame or respect,
    who knows, now?
    I opened my mouth,
    but no jokes came out—
    I couldn’t misdirect from this,
    no sleight of hand.

    I had to face this—
    whatever it is,
    whatever these leaves
    show me,
    I’ve got to take it seriously—
    because maybe it is these memories
    that are keeping me stuck here.

    Maybe they are the memories
    that drive the fear,
    that keeps me from acting—
    that keeps me dragging feet
    and self-sabotaging.

    Slowly I rise—
    like the sun over the horizon.
    Knees shaking from the weight of me,
    I struggle to take one step
    and then another.

    I stumble through the ruins
    of thoughts, dreams and memories—
    my chest rises and falls,
    like oxygen is in short supply.

    Then I see it—
    a single rose in bloom,
    poking through the ashes
    of nights only remembered
    in the spilled ink on silent pages.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [One Honest Sentence]
    It’s easy to write about anything. What’s difficult is writing one completely honest sentence without hiding behind humor, references, or metaphor. One Honest Sentence explores the distance between poetic confidence and emotional vulnerability.

    [Leave No Self Behind]
    What if finding yourself isn’t about discovering someone new, but learning to walk beside every version you’ve ever been? “Leave No Self Behind” is a meditation on memory, healing, and embracing the selves we once abandoned.

    [More Afraid Than the Ink]
    Some confessions are easy to write but impossible to speak. More Afraid Than the Ink explores fear, dreams, recurring symbols, and the quiet realization that the page has always been braver than the poet.

    [Just Human]
    Just Human is a reflective free verse poem about seeing people before borders, choosing empathy over division, and finding home in our shared humanity rather than on a map.

    [Translating What I Feel]
    A poem about the invisible process of turning emotion into imagery, imagery into language, and language into poetry. An intimate reflection on creativity, loneliness, and twenty-three years of learning to translate what the heart feels.

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

  • Leave No Self Behind | A Poem About Healing, Memory & Self-Acceptance

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem grew out of a realization that getting “lost” isn’t always the same as losing yourself.

    I’ve written many pieces about dreams, memory, shifting landscapes, and wandering through places that seem to exist somewhere between reality and imagination. Over time, I realized those places weren’t asking me to escape who I was—they were asking me to revisit the parts of myself I had left behind.

    We often talk about “finding ourselves” as though there’s one true version waiting to be discovered. My experience has been almost the opposite. Every season of life leaves behind another version of us: the frightened one, the hopeful one, the grieving one, the joyful one. None of them disappear simply because we’ve grown older.

    Healing, at least for me, isn’t replacing those earlier selves.

    It’s learning to walk beside them without shame.

    This poem is an invitation to stop treating old versions of ourselves as mistakes to erase and instead see them as companions who helped us survive long enough to become who we are today.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure walking through a dreamlike hallway where each open doorway reveals a different landscape representing memories and past versions of the self.
    Healing isn’t finding one true self—it’s learning to walk beside every version of yourself with compassion.

    Leave No Self Behind
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I feel like I’ve lost myself again—
    don’t know when it began,
    but I get lost a lot.

    It doesn’t take much for me
    to get lost in thought—

    I wander off
    without meaning to,
    slipping between memories
    like loose floorboards.

    One thought opens a door,
    another pulls me down a hallway,
    and suddenly I’m somewhere
    I didn’t plan to be—

    with some version of me
    I didn’t plan to meet.

    Sometimes the hallway
    tilts into something else—

    a shoreline I’ve walked in sleep,
    a city humming with heat,
    a room I haven’t entered in years.

    The world shifts
    without warning,
    and I follow it
    the way I follow dreams—

    half-aware,
    half-afraid
    of what I’ll find
    in the scene change.

    I never know
    which version of me
    I’ll find in those places—

    the one who’s tired,
    the one who’s trying,
    the one who’s still carrying
    things I swore I let go.

    Sometimes I meet
    the versions of me
    I thought I’d outgrown—

    the one who flinches,
    the one who freezes,
    the one who still thinks
    they’re hard to love.

    And I walk with them
    for a while,
    through whatever memory
    the hallway decides to show—

    letting them speak,
    letting them breathe,
    letting them…

    exist.

    Without rushing them back
    into the dark.

    And maybe that’s
    what finding myself
    really looks like—

    not a single moment
    of clarity,
    not a sudden return,
    but walking through
    every hallway
    my mind opens,
    meeting every version
    I’ve ever been,
    and letting them stay
    long enough
    to feel seen.

    Maybe I’m not lost.

    Maybe I’m just learning
    how to carry
    all the selves
    I used to abandon
    when the world
    felt too loud.

    Maybe this time…

    I won’t leave anyone—

    behind.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Where the Metaphors Lead]
    Some truths are easier to write than they are to say aloud. “Where the Metaphors Lead” explores the quiet space between dreams, confession, and the courage it takes to let another person know how deeply they’ve become woven into your inner world.

    [Noon Is Loud]
    If four in the morning belongs to truth, then noon belongs to impossible memories. Noon Is Loud is a playful free verse poem filled with absurd boasts, pop culture references, and tongue-in-cheek mythology that explores how easily imagination can rewrite reality.

    [5:01 (Pull the Punchline Back)]
    What happens when a confessional poet instinctively hides every confession behind a joke? 5:01 (Pull the Punchline Back) explores humor as emotional armor, the speed of an overactive mind, and the difficult choice between making people laugh and letting them see what’s really there.

    [Chemical X]
    Chemical X explores the rapid, associative way one creative mind moves—from cartoons to sports, comic books to music—revealing that inspiration isn’t linear, but a collision of memory, humor, rhythm, and intuition.

    [Monster Theology]
    What if the monsters under the bed weren’t monsters at all? Monster Theology explores difference, belonging, and the human tendency to fear what we don’t understand through a conversation with the creatures we’ve spent our lives imagining.

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

  • Danny Phantom Theology | A Poem About Living Between Worlds and Choosing Hope

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem began with a cartoon.

    Or rather, it began with a metaphor borrowed from one.

    I’ve always been drawn to characters who exist between worlds—people who don’t fully belong in one place or another, who spend their lives navigating the space between identities, expectations, realities, and possibilities.

    When I thought about Danny Phantom, I realized the metaphor fit more than I expected.

    Not because I feel haunted.

    Not because I feel supernatural.

    But because I understand what it feels like to exist in two places at once.

    Part of me lives in the present moment—the practical world of obligations, routines, limitations, and survival.

    Another part lives somewhere else.

    A quieter place built from hope, imagination, memory, longing, possibility, and the belief that life can become more than what it currently is.

    For a long time, much of my writing has existed in the tension between those two worlds.

    The opening sections of this poem lean into that tension. They acknowledge exhaustion, frustration, and the feeling of carrying more weight than you’d like. But the poem isn’t interested in staying there.

    What matters to me is where it ends.

    Because this isn’t a poem about giving up.

    It’s a poem about wanting more from life than survival.

    About wanting a future that feels inviting instead of merely manageable.

    About believing that the light inside us isn’t meant to spend its entire existence fighting to stay alive.

    Sometimes it deserves the chance to burn because it’s excited.

    Excited about tomorrow.

    Excited about possibility.

    Excited about whatever comes next.

    Maybe that’s the real theology hidden inside the title:

    Not that we exist between worlds.

    But that we keep moving toward the one where we finally get to live.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure stands between a gray city and a glowing world of light and possibility, symbolizing living between survival and hope.
    Somewhere between the life we endure and the life we imagine, hope keeps the light alive.

    Danny Phantom Theology
    Poetry by Rowan Evan1s

    Sometimes I feel
    like Danny Phantom,
    a boy between worlds—
    one alive, the other
    a quiet place inside me
    where the light flickers
    but never fully goes out.

    I exist in both.
    But I do not thrive,
    most the time
    it barely feels like I’ll survive.
    I know that’s a little dramatic—
    it’s a bad habit.
    I know my words feel heavy,
    more than intended most the time.
    I know what it sounds like—
    it sounds like I don’t like life.

    But that’s not true—
    I’m a lover of life,
    a hater of the conditions.
    I want a change—
    in environment,
    in circumstance.

    I want a world
    where I don’t have to split myself
    to make it through the day,
    where the light inside me
    doesn’t flicker
    from exhaustion
    but from possibility.

    I want a life
    where survival
    isn’t the main objective.
    Where waking up
    isn’t an act of endurance,
    but anticipation.
    Where the light inside me
    doesn’t flicker
    because it’s fighting to stay alive—

    but because…

    it’s excited
    for what’s next.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Frankenstein’s Monster]
    Some poems are built to make a point. Others are built to reveal the mechanism. Frankenstein’s Monster (and I’m the Doctor) explores associative thinking, creative chaos, and the strange process of stitching disconnected ideas into something alive.

    [Lone Wolf Theology]
    A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

    [Before We Created the Labels]
    Ancient gods return to a fractured world shaped by borders, identities, and separation. “Before We Created the Labels” explores humanity’s divisions through mythic imagery, sacred ritual, and symbolic collapse—asking what remains when we learn to see one another beyond labels.

    [A Heart That Echoes in Another Language]
    A poetic journey through music across Japan, Korea, China, and the Philippines, exploring how sound becomes identity, memory, and emotional geography.

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

  • Not Rebuilding You | A Poem About Love, Trust, Healing, and Building Safe Foundations

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems arrive all at once.

    This one arrived in pieces.

    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

    A new foundation being built beside old ruins at twilight, symbolizing healing, trust, and creating a safe future through love.
    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.

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

  • The Thread That Led Me Home | A Poem About Memory, Fog, and Finding Your Way Back

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’d been stuck in my head for days—looping memories, fogged thoughts, the usual spiral.

    Then I had a dream.

    In it, someone I care deeply about cut through the noise in the bluntest, most effective way possible. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t poetic. But it worked.

    This poem came from that moment—the realization that sometimes the way forward isn’t overthinking, but following the one thread that still feels steady.

    Even through the fog.

    A glowing thread leads through foggy woods toward a softly lit clearing at night, symbolizing guidance and emotional connection.
    Sometimes the way out of your head is just one honest thread—and the courage to follow it.

    The Thread That Led Me Home
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    The fog rolls over hills,
    and a chill clings
    to my mind.
    Memories linger
    in flickering fragments,
    clinging static—
    the kind that hums
    behind the eyes,
    buzzing with moments
    I thought I buried
    but never really left.

    They circle back—
    whispers caught
    between stations,
    half-formed voices
    I almost recognize
    but can’t quiet name.
    Threads of memory
    tangled in the mist,
    pulling me back
    to places
    I never meant to revisit.

    I stumble through playgrounds,
    bumping off walls
    as I march down the hall.
    A single thread,
    I’ve begun to follow—
    It leads through memory,
    after memory.
    Twisting and turning,
    it knots—
    and I pause,
    fingers trembling
    over the tangle,
    wondering what unravels
    if I pull too hard.

    I run fingers
    over threads.
    Gripping soft,
    pulling slow—
    I watch
    as the string
    slips free—
    and it hums,
    like it’s guiding me.

    So I follow.

    Step after step,
    one foot
    in front
    of the other.
    I step and stumble
    through fog,
    thick as my thoughts.
    And when
    I feel lost,
    my fingers tighten
    grabbing the string
    like a lifeline.
    It’s the only guide
    through my mind.

    I stumble through,
    snapping twigs
    and branches.
    The rustle of
    rotting leaves
    under feet,
    until I see it.
    A light,
    a clearing.
    And when I reach it,
    when I find
    the strings conclusion—
    what do I see?

    You.
    A smile.
    Home.

    Closing Note

    Yesterday’s poem was about the weight of memory. This one is about the moment something — or someone — breaks through that weight. Not to fix it, not to erase it, but to remind me that I don’t have to walk through the fog alone.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Memory Lane Has No Exit]
    With my birthday approaching, I found myself trapped inside my mind—wandering memory lane, revisiting love, loss, and the moments that built me. This poem is a reflection on betrayal, survival, and the quiet realization that drifting isn’t the same as healing.

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