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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: identity poem

  • Lost the Plot | A Poem About Identity, Control, and Rewritten Stories

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a strange kind of disorientation that comes from feeling like your life should make sense… but doesn’t.

    Like you missed a chapter.
    Or something important got cut before you ever had the chance to understand it.

    Lost the Plot leans into that feeling–but not just on a personal level. It questions what happens when the narrative itself isn’t entirely yours. When the direction shifts, not because it should… but because something behind the scenes decided it needed to.

    We’re often told that confusion is internal.
    That if we feel lost, it’s something we need to fix within ourselves.

    But what if part of that feeling comes from the story constantly being rewritten?
    From forces we don’t see, shaping outcomes we’re expected to accept?

    This piece sits in that space–between personal disconnection and a growing awareness the “plot” might not be as natural as it seems.

    Sometimes it’s not that you lost your way.

    Sometimes… the story changed without you.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing on a broken film set with scattered reels and a looming studio above, symbolizing loss of identity and control
    What happens when the story isn’t yours anymore?

    Lost the Plot
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I feel like I’ve been
    getting lost a lot lately.

    Like I’ve forgotten
    who I was,
    who I am—
    who I was becoming.

    I’m feeling like
    I’ve lost the plot,
    like the studio
    lost the reel
    that we shot.

    No longer
    can I see
    where I began.

    We got cancelled
    before we
    got going.

    We never saw an end.

    But we weren’t
    cancelled because of
    interest.

    We were cancelled
    because the studio
    got scared.

    Ratings were good.
    The audience cared.

    But they cared too much.

    It was causing
    connection,
    so the studio
    had to change
    direction.

    The studio,
    needs the divide—
    keeps people
    scared and wide-eyed.

    So there’s always
    someone—
    to point to,
    to name as the bad guy.

    The boogeyman.

    So we look to the stars,
    as if they could solve
    the problems.

    As if it wasn’t
    the studio—
    the writer’s room
    behind every decision.

    It was them—

    in the writer’s room,
    rewriting endings
    we never got to reach.

    Ratings be damned.

    The show goes on—

    we just don’t
    exist in it anymore.

    Journey into the Hexverse!

    [Another Fire]
    A powerful poem exploring global chaos, systemic inequality, and emotional exhaustion in a world where conflict grows faster than it can be understood.

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

  • Standing Between Us | Identity & Love Poem

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece lives in a space between two interpretations, and I wrote it that way on purpose.

    It can be read as a reflection on identity–on the versions of ourselves we carry, the ones we’ve been, and ones we hesitate to become. A room filled with selves, each one shaped by different choices, different fears, different moments of almost.

    But it can also be read as something more relational. The figure in the piece–“her”–can exist as a person. Someone who feels steady, certain, present in a way the speaker isn’t yet. Someone who becomes a point of gravity.

    What matters to me is that the distance between them comes from the same place in both readings.

    Not circumstance.

    Not timing.

    But hesitation.

    In that way, the poem sits in the overlap between becoming and connection–where reaching someone else and becoming yourself start to feel like the same act.

    — Rowan Evans

    Multiple versions of a person standing in a dim surreal room with a distant glowing figure symbolizing identity and connection
    A room full of who I was, who I am, and who I haven’t learned to be yet.

    Standing Between Us
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I walk into a room
    that knows my name too well.

    It is filled with me—
    not reflections,
    not mirrors—
    but selves.

    They stand where I once stood,
    breathe how I used to breathe,
    hold their hands like I remember doing
    before I knew why.

    Some look at me.
    Most don’t.

    They are not ghosts—
    not quite.
    I cannot see through them.
    They have weight.
    Presence.
    Like memories
    that never learned how to fade.

    I move through them anyway.

    Shoulder brushing shoulder—
    past brushing present—
    future turning its head
    just a second too late.

    And then—

    her.

    Not fully seen.
    Never fully seen.

    A glimpse
    between the space
    of two mistakes,
    I used to make.

    A flicker
    caught in the outline
    of who I used to be
    and who I might become.

    I follow.

    Or maybe I orbit.

    Because every time I get close,
    another version of me steps in the way—
    hesitation given form,
    fear with a body,
    longing wearing my face.

    I want to call out—
    but which voice is mine?

    They all sound like me.

    So I keep moving.

    Through regret.
    Through almosts.
    Through the selves that loved—
    too early,
    too late…

    too quietly.

    And still—
    I see her.

    Soft.
    Certain.
    Waiting in the space
    I haven’t learned to stand in yet.

    I think—

    no.

    I know.

    She is not lost in this room.

    I am.

    And every version of me
    that I refuse to become
    is standing between us.

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

  • Call of the Tide – A Poem About Identity, Belonging & Being Drawn Beyond Borders

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece isn’t about hatred for where I’m from.
    It’s about honesty.

    For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt the pull of something beyond the shoreline I was born on. Not rebellion. Not fantasy. Just a quiet, persistent tide.

    “Drawn to Sea” is both wordplay and truth – a recognition that sometimes the call we feel isn’t about escape, but alignment. I don’t believe other people are wrong for loving where they are rooted. I simply know that my roots may be meant for different soil.

    Some of us don’t reject the shore.

    We just hear another one calling.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person standing alone at the edge of the ocean at sunset, looking toward the horizon in contemplation.
    Some shores are inherited.
    Others call you by name.

    Call of the Tide (Drawn to SEA)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    You can call me Moana
    the way I’m drawn to SEA,
    but there is no demi-god
    helping me.

    I must face the waves alone.

    The waves of hate
    from people in the place
    they say,
    I’m supposed to call home.

    But I’m American
    in label only.
    My mind frame
    does not align
    with the anthem
    in their sentiments.

    I’m not saying
    they’re wrong.
    I’m just saying
    I don’t belong.

    This place is not home.
    This shore was never my own.
    I’ve felt the pull of tides
    since my earliest days.
    So I stand at the edge—
    watching the horizon,
    waiting for the water
    to call my name.

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

  • Imaginary Lines – A Poem About Borders, Identity & Shared Humanity

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece came from a lifelong feeling of distance – not just from place, but from the way people divide themselves.

    It isn’t anti-country. It isn’t anti-culture. It’s anti-separation.

    I’ve never understood how imaginary lines on maps can outweigh shared humanity. This poem is me saying plainly what I’ve felt for years: we are far more alike than we are different, and the borders we defend so fiercely don’t exist in our blood or our bones.

    This isn’t rebellion for the sake of rebellion.
    It’s clarity.

    — Rowan Evans

    A symbolic image of a cracked border line beneath a star-filled sky, representing unity beyond national divisions.
    The border isn’t the edge of the world. It’s the edge of perception.

    Imaginary Lines
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I don’t feel
    like I’m from here,
    like I come from out
    beyond the stars—
    somewhere far,
    lightyears beyond mars.

    I watch and observe,
    as humans continue
    to act absurd.
    It’s like they
    don’t know how
    to act.
    Kind of like
    they don’t know how
    to treat each other.

    Focused on imaginary lines,
    barriers and borders.
    With a—
    if you’re not like me,
    you’re the enemy
    mentality.

    When you bleed
    it all looks the same.
    Human is human.
    The rest is costume.

    No passport in the bloodstream.
    No nation in the bone.

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

  • Be Proud – A Poem About Identity, Disconnection, and Refusing Forced Patriotism

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece isn’t about hating a place.
    It’s about refusing to perform pride I don’t feel.

    For most of my life, I’ve carried a quiet disconnect—and what’s always surprised me isn’t the feeling itself, but how personal other people take it. As if my lack of attachment is an accusation.

    It isn’t.

    It’s just honesty.

    Be Proud is about boundaries. About recognizing that someone else’s love for something doesn’t require my imitation. And that some feelings run too deep to be argued out of existence.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person standing apart from a distant city skyline under a dramatic evening sky.
    You can love it.
    I just don’t.

    Be Proud
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s always been funny to me,
    the way people argue with me.
    Why does my disconnect
    affect you so badly?
    Why do you take
    my wanting to leave,
    so personal?

    If you’re proud,
    be proud—
    I don’t care,
    honestly.

    You’re wasting your breath,
    you’re wasting your time—
    because, you’re never going to
    change my mind.
    I’ve been like this
    for most of my life,
    so tell me—
    do you really think
    your opinion will
    change something
    so marrow deep?

    Look, you love America—
    I get it, I really do,
    and I wish
    I was a little more
    like you.

    But I’m not.

    And I can’t fake it,
    you can’t make me.

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

  • Crossroads of Flame – A Poem About Choosing the Unknown | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Crossroads of Flame was born from a moment of choosing discomfort over safety, and creation over silence. It reflects the turning point between who I was and who I am becoming—not only as a poet, but as the many voices I carry within me. Roo, Hex, B.D., and I each walk different inner landscapes, but all of us share the same ember: the belief that the unknown is worth stepping into, even when it burns.

    This poem marks a new phase of intention. A deliberate path forward. A reminder that comfort is quiet, but purpose is loud—and I am choosing to listen.

    — Rowan Evans

    Poetic gothic illustration of a lone figure at a crossroads under a twilight sky, facing a wild burning path toward the unknown.
    A crossroads beneath a burning sky—the moment intention becomes transformation.

    Crossroads of Flame
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand at a crossroads—
    two paths stretch beneath a waning sky,
    one worn and familiar, lined with shadows I know,
    the other narrow, veiled in bramble and whispered risk.

    The first hums a lullaby of comfort,
    soft, forgiving, predictable.
    I could walk it blindfolded,
    count the cracks beneath my feet,
    and know I will not falter.

    But the second calls in a voice I barely recognize,
    a tremor beneath the wind,
    a hint of fire beneath frost.
    It asks nothing of me—yet demands all:
    my attention, my courage, my deliberate steps.

    I carve my own instead.
    Through tangled shrubs and corridors of darkened wood,
    I trace a path that no map can hold,
    listening to the pulse beneath my ribs,
    the hum that answers back:
    Roo, Hex, B.D., and me—
    four voices intertwined,
    four flames in one vessel,
    guiding, guarding, urging.

    Alone—yet never alone—
    I step carefully, feeling each stone,
    each thorn, each sigh of wind through the leaves.
    The safe path still beckons behind me,
    a ghost of ease I might have chosen.
    But the wild one waits, insistent,
    its promise stitched with challenge
    and the weight of things I have yet to become.

    I am the storm and the calm,
    the knife that severs hesitation,
    the hand that steadies,
    the ember that refuses to die.
    I am the whisper in the dark corridors,
    the laughter in the bramble,
    the ache that drives me forward.

    Tonight I choose not comfort.
    Tonight I choose intent.
    Tonight I choose to step beyond what I know,
    into the narrow, the jagged, the luminous unknown,
    and let the path unfold beneath my careful flame.

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

    Leave a comment and tell me which path you would choose.