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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: home

  • Just Visiting – A Poem About Not Feeling at Home

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve written around this feeling for years — in metaphors, in longing, in coded language about distance and departure.

    This is the first time I’ve said it this plainly.

    For most of my life, I’ve felt like a visitor in the place I was born. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a rebellious way. Just in a quiet, persistent way that never left.

    This piece isn’t about anger. It isn’t about rejection.

    It’s about finally naming what I’ve always known—
    that sometimes “home” is assigned to you,
    and sometimes it’s something you’re still moving toward.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone traveler standing in an airport terminal at dusk, looking out at distant city lights with a suitcase beside them.
    Sometimes the place you’re born isn’t the place you’re meant to stay.

    Just Visiting
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been talking about it a lot lately,
    this feeling of wanting to escape
    that I’ve had since I was just a baby.
    I was forced to call this place home,
    because this is where I was born—
    it never felt like home,
    just a place I was visiting.

    Every day in school—
    I’d recite the pledge,
    like a good
    little patriot
    should.
    But I didn’t believe in it,
    there was no allegiance in it.

    They say they’re proud to be an American,
    well me? I’ve never been,
    because this is just a place to me.
    I’ve said it before, once in this poem alone—
    this place has never been my home.

    And I’ve lived all across it.
    Never once have I have felt planted,
    no roots took hold.
    Felt like a tourist—
    in a place I was
    supposed to belong.

    But I’ve known for a while now,
    my place is not within these borders.
    This place will never be
    home for me.
    But it will always be
    a part of me. (Sadly.)

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

  • Disconnected Since Fourteen | Poetry About Belonging & Displacement

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem traces the moment when disconnection stopped being temporary and started feeling structural.
    At fourteen, I didn’t just feel out of place—I felt offline. Like my signal never quite reached the world I was standing in.

    The language of technology felt like the closest mirror for that experience: dropped signals, endless queues, systems that never respond. This isn’t nostalgia, and it isn’t blame—it’s recognition. Naming the feeling that followed me for years before I understood what it was.

    Some people search for belonging.
    Some of us search for a connection that was never stable to begin with.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person sitting alone in a dark room with glowing cables and signal symbols, representing emotional disconnection and longing for belonging.
    Some disconnections start early—and never fully resolve.

    Disconnected Since Fourteen
    (Lost in Queue)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I used to sit alone, lost in thoughts
    of far off places—far from…
    home.

    I’d write about every one,
    write about them in my…
    poems.

    The way longing bled into art,
    art bled the words from my heart.
    It was the truth spilling—
    feeling homeless,
    since I was fourteen.

    Felt disconnected,
    like the Wi-Fi dropped.
    Mind static, dramatic,
    screaming like…
    dial-up.

    Trying to connect
    to somewhere that never answers.
    Server overloaded,
    lost in queue—
    endless, connection loop.

    I do not belong here.
    Everything feels wrong here.

    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]

  • My Heart, Population: You – A Poem About Tender Devotion

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem was written in February of last year, during an earlier incarnation of a project that has since transformed into something entirely different. It comes from a gentler season of longing—one where love felt less like fire and more like shelter.

    I’m sharing it now not because it fits where I am, but because it still tells the truth of who I’ve been: someone who loves in open doors and soft permanence, someone who believes devotion can be tender.

    Some poems don’t belong to the book they were born for.
    They belong to the timeline of the heart instead.

    Illustration of a heart-shaped city glowing at dusk, symbolizing love, home, and gentle devotion.
    A heart that became a home.

    My Heart, Population: You
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    You wandered in, no map, no key,
    Yet claimed this land inside of me.
    No walls were built, no toll to pay,
    Just open roads that beg you to stay.

    Your name’s engraved on every street,
    A love so vast, so pure, so sweet.

    Like ivy vines, you took your place,
    Wrapped every brick in your embrace.
    A cityscape of dreams anew,
    Each heartbeat whispering of you.

    No lease, no debt, no price to weigh,
    Yet still, I’d pay in love each day.

    A sunlit park where laughter rings,
    A chapel where devotion sings.
    My heart, once vacant, cold, askew—
    Now thrives with life, population: You.

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