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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: introspection

  • 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]

  • Miss na Siya – A Short Poem on Longing and Absence

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    A moment of longing, a tide that has left me… Sometimes absence is a presence all its own. This short piece reflects the ache of missing someone, of feeling incomplete in empty spaces.

    A small fish in a glowing bowl in an empty room, sunlight streaming in – evoking longing and absence.
    “Even in the quietest rooms, absence has a weight. ‘Miss na siya’ captures that feeling.”

    Miss na Siya
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Miss na siya—
    like a fish
    that can’t breathe
    without its sea.
    Every empty room
    feels like the tide
    has left me.

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

  • Between Walls and Whispers (Ghost and Witness) – Poetry by Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    Sometimes, the quiet isn’t empty. 
    Sometimes, it carries you, like a pulse behind the walls. 
    Here, in the hush, I watch. 
    Here, in the stillness, I breathe. 
    Here, I am seen, even when no else is. 
     
    — Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ

    Ethereal figure standing in a dim room, light streaming through cracks, evoking quiet and introspection.
    “Surrounded in silence, both ghost and witness.” – Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ

    Between Walls and Whispers (Ghost and Witness)
    Pᵒᵉᵗʳʸ bʸ Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ

    Sometimes, I find myself 
    surrounded in silence— 
    not absence, 
    but a quiet hum behind the walls. 
    The room feels full, 
    but nobody’s really there, 
    and I am both ghost 
    and witness— 
     
    drifting, endless, 
    caught in this forced flow 
    of normalcy. 
     
    A weirdo, 
    misfit, outcast— 
    purposeful outsider, 
    rejector of the machine. 
     
    I don’t want to be another cog. 
    Sometimes, I long for silence— 
    not the absence, 
    but that gentle presence, 
    a pulse softer 
    than the endless hum. 
     
    And in that silence, I breathe. 
    I am seen, 
    I am held, 
    not by voices or eyes, 
    but by the quiet 
    that understands 
    what the hum 
    cannot touch.

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

  • When the Mask Slips | Neo-Gothic Confessional Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    When the Mask Slips explores the fragile boundary between performed sanity and inner unraveling. Through vivid imagery, surreal metaphor, and a self-aware voice, Rowan Evans captures the terror and beauty of identity under pressure, where the mask may be all that stands between perception and emptiness.

    Neo-Gothic digital illustration of a solitary figure with a Cheshire grin sitting at a flickering-lit table, representing the fragility of identity and performed sanity.
    When the Mask Slips visualized: a lone figure navigating the fragile line between performance and inner self.

    When the Mask Slips
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I am going to be honest—

    I think I’ve lost my mind,
    I’ve been drifting in this mental fog.
    Wandering. Lost.
    Not sure what I was trying to find,
    not sure what was the cost.

    But I’ve been—
    orbiting annihilation,
    facing Armageddon
    in phases—
    the moon isn’t the only thing
    that disappears piece by piece.

    I keep losing track of my thoughts
    like loose teeth—
    wiggling them
    just to feel something give.
    I’m just a Mad Hatter,
    with a Cheshire grin—
    screaming “Off with their heads!”
    just to hear the echo—
    make sure the room and I are still real.

    Sometimes—
    I cosplay sanity,
    like I have a grasp on reality.
    Like I know the meaning of stability—
    mentally.
    I dress up, pretend that I’m normal—
    but it feels too boring and formal,
    too exposed.
    Too much light, not enough shade,
    too many eyes on my face.

    And underneath it all,
    I’m terrified there’s nothing there—
    when the world stops being a stage,
    when existence stops being a performance.
    When the mask slips…
    and it’s just me.

    (God, what if that’s worse?)

    Author’s Note

    This poem sits at the edge between humor and unraveling—between the persona we show the world and the version of ourselves we hope no one ever sees. It isn’t about insanity; it’s about the fear that sanity might be nothing more than costume, choreography, and survival instinct.

    It uses absurdity as honesty, because sometimes the surreal is the only language for a fraying mind. The Wonderland imagery isn’t playful fantasy—it’s metaphorical dissociation. The poem is meant to feel unsteady, spiraling, self-aware, and a little unhinged. It asks:

    What if the mask isn’t hiding anything?
    What if the performance is the person?

    This piece reflects the quiet terror of identity erosion—the dread that beneath the jokes, the aesthetics, the manic charm, and the polished poetry… there may be nothing solid to hold onto.

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

  • 22 Confessions: Raw & Intimate Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    One confession for every year I have been writing.
    Some truths are small.
    Some are unbearable.
    All are mine.

    Handwritten letters on a dimly lit desk with a pen and shadowy figure, evoking introspection and confessional poetry.
    22 Confessions: One poem for every year, revealing truths both small and unbearable.

    22 Confessions
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I.
    i have told someone
    i loved them,
    when i didn’t mean it—
    just to see if i could.

    II.
    i stare at my reflection
    too long.
    still—
    i don’t see what others do.

    III.
    i’ve held grudges
    longer—
    than i’ve held hands.

    IV.
    i crave chaos in silence,
    as if noise
    could make me
    alive.

    V.
    i have written letters
    i will never send.
    they carry my soul.
    anyway.

    VI.
    i envy people who forget.
    i remember
    everything.

    VII.
    i love someone
    so deeply,
    it hurts—
    to breathe around them.

    and still—
    they are never mine.

    VIII.
    i sometimes wish
    i could be unremarkable
    just for a day.

    IX.
    i judge myself
    harder than anyone else
    ever could.

    X.
    i laugh at the wrong moments
    to hide the right ones.

    XI.
    i hold people to impossible standards,
    and silently blame myself
    when they fail.

    XII.
    i have hurt the innocent
    to protect myself.
    i called it survival.
    it was selfishness.

    XIII.
    i crave being seen—
    but panic when i am.

    XIV.
    i have whispered secrets
    to strangers
    i would never share
    with friends.

    XV.
    i write confessions
    i pray nobody reads.

    XVI.
    i have loved my own pain
    more than i have loved—
    anyone else.

    XVII.
    i sometimes pretend
    to be stronger
    than i feel.

    XVIII.
    i am afraid of being ordinary.
    extraordinary terrifies me too.

    XIX.
    i have loved
    the idea of people
    more than the people themselves.

    XX.
    i keep parts of myself
    in boxes
    even i cannot open.

    XXI.
    i crave connection—
    but it terrifies me—
    every single time.

    XXII.
    i am still learning
    how to forgive myself.
    before it is too late.

    Closing question:

    I’ve confessed 22 truths. Which one would you admit aloud?

    To read more of my work, check out the archives: [The Library of Ashes]

  • The Fear of No Fear at All – A Reflection on Love, Safety, and Vulnerability | Rowan Evans Poetry

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This reflection came to me as a kind of whisper — the voice of every anxious soul who has spent years mistaking chaos for connection. The Fear of No Fear at All is not about panic, but about peace — and how frightening peace can be when you’ve learned to survive on the edge of heartbreak.
    It’s about the moment you realize that being seen, truly seen, doesn’t have to hurt.

    Sunlight through sheer curtains, illuminating an open journal and cup of tea on a wooden desk.
    When love finally feels safe, fear becomes the last ghost to leave.

    The Fear of No Fear at All
    Reflection by Rowan Evans

    There’s a kind of fear only the anxious understand—
    not the kind that makes your pulse race,
    but the kind that falls silent when something finally feels right.

    When you’ve spent years waiting for the floor to collapse,
    for love to turn sharp, for tenderness to vanish like smoke,
    peace feels dangerous. Safety feels foreign.
    Your body doesn’t trust the quiet;
    it waits for the crash that never comes.

    And then one day, someone walks in—
    and there is no crash.
    No second-guessing, no masks to hold.
    You find yourself unguarded, unarmed,
    and the absence of panic is the most terrifying thing of all.

    Because what do you do
    when love doesn’t demand that you bleed for it?
    When it asks only for your truth,
    your laughter, your unhidden self?

    That is the fear of no fear at all—
    the trembling realization that maybe,
    after all this time,
    you are finally safe here.

    🕛 Coming at 12:05 am (UTC +8)

    A companion piece — the moment that inspired this realization.
    ✨ The Moment I Realized (Under Manila’s Setting Sun) — a vignette of confession, connection, and the beautiful terror of truth.

  • Don’t Bother, I’m Not Worth the Effort | Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    A raw and confessional dive into the shadows of the self. I bare the weight of isolation, vulnerability, and creative exhaustion in this deeply personal poem.

    Dimly lit room with ink-stained journal and scattered papers, evoking solitude and poetic struggle.
    “Pouring out the heart and soul, line by line—a broken poet in their gray world.”

    Don’t Bother, I’m Not Worth the Effort
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Don’t bother, I’m not worth the effort.
    Just a shattered mirror, reflecting only discord,
    my heart’s a maze, winding and dark,
    A labyrinth of shadows, no end, no spark.

    I’m a poet with a broken pen,
    writing verses of a life that’s caged within,
    words drip from my soul, heavy and slow,
    but they’re tangled in thorns. No roses to show.

    My mind’s a storm, chaotic and wild,
    a tempest of doubts, like an unruly child—
    to open up is to let you drown,
    in an ocean of my thoughts, where I wear the crown.

    I’m nothing special, just a mess of ink,
    a faded page in a book you wouldn’t think
    to read twice or even linger on.
    A fleeting thought, then quickly gone.

    I can’t promise sunshine or clear skies,
    only cloudy days and heavy sighs.
    The walls around me are high and steep,
    guarding a heart that’s buried deep.

    Don’t waste your time on a ghost of a girl,
    who hides in the shadows, afraid of the world.
    I’m a puzzle with pieces that don’t quite fit,
    a story untold, not worth the wit.

    My smiles are paper-thin, my laughter hollow,
    a mask I wear, a tough act to follow.
    But beneath the surface, the cracks show through,
    a broken poet with nothing new.

    So don’t bother, I’m not worth the time,
    to try and understand my rhyme.
    Just a fleeting breeze, a passing thought,
    a tale half-told, best left forgot.

    For those who venture close, I can only say,
    the journey’s long, with little to repay.
    So turn back now, find another road,
    for this one’s fraught, with too much load.

    I’m just a whisper in the wind,
    a shadow you can’t quite pin… down,
    pouring the ink from my pen now,
    I scribble until the lines just bleed out.

    Don’t bother, it’s not worth the pain,
    to walk this path where there’s no gain.
    So leave me here, in my world of gray,
    where the colors fade and the lights don’t stay.

    I’m just a broken poet, lost in their art,
    not worth the effort to know or to chart.
    Just a broken poet, bleeding out their heart,
    not worth the effort to know….

  • Envy – 7 Deadly Sonnets by Rowan Evans | Dark Romantic Poetry

    Rowan Evans

    Envy gnaws at the soul. This sonnet reveals the hollow ache of comparison and the corrosive desire for what is not yours.

    Figure with green eyes coveting another’s treasures – illustration for Envy sonnet.
    Envy – the sixth of the 7 Deadly Sonnets by Rowan Evans, exploring jealousy and longing.

    7 Deadly Sonnets
    Envy

    I watch with eyes as green as ivy’s weave,
    The fruits that others savor, ripe and sweet,
    Each laugh, each joy, a cut that makes me grieve,
    For all I lack, as bitterness repeats.

    Their lives unfold, like tales I’ll never know,
    Each cherished dream, each whispered, stolen kiss,
    A golden world, untouched by sorrow’s blow,
    While envy burns, a wound that can’t resist.

    In silent suffering, I crave their grace,
    To wear their smiles, to walk in others’ skin,
    Yet envy scours all beauty from my face,
    And leaves me hollowed, poisoned deep within.

    In wanting what is theirs, I lose what’s mine,
    A haunted shade, in envy’s twisted shrine.

    The 7 Deadly Sonnets

    I. Lust
    My pulse quickens at each whispered breath, desires draping the air like silken chains. ‘Lust,’ the first of the 7 Deadly Sonnets, explores the fevered, consuming hunger that blurs the lines between passion and peril.

    II. Gluttony
    ‘Gluttony’ devours more than food—it consumes the soul. The second of the 7 Deadly Sonnets explores endless craving, the hunger for excess, and the void it leaves behind.

    III. Greed
    ‘Greed’ reveals the hunger that is never sated—the clutching hands, the endless thirst for more, and the hollowness left behind. The third of the 7 Deadly Sonnets.

    IV. Sloth
    ‘Sloth’ captures the quiet paralysis of apathy, the weight of inaction, and the suffocating stillness that can consume the soul. The fourth of the 7 Deadly Sonnets.

    V. Wrath
    ‘Wrath’ burns with uncontrollable fury, the tempest of anger that devours and consumes. The fifth of the 7 Deadly Sonnets, exploring the raw power of vengeance.