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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: introspective poetry

  • The Voice in the Haze | A Dreamlike Poem About Being Called and Finding Connection

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece came from a dream that didn’t feel like it wanted to stay a dream.

    There’s a strange feeling that comes with certain moments–where something feels unfamiliar, but not new. Like you’re not discovering something, but remembering it.

    This poem lives in that space.

    Between wandering and being called.
    Between searching and being found.

    And in that moment where everything quiets just enough for you to hear something that feels meant for you–where you understand it yet or not.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person walking through a hazy dreamlike city toward a glowing figure, symbolizing a mysterious voice calling them
    Some voices don’t introduce themselves—
    they feel like something you’ve always known.

    The Voice in the Haze
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I had a dream last night—
    I was wandering
    blurry streets,
    not a fog
    but a haze.
    It felt like I had been
    wandering for days.

    Everything felt foreign,
    yet familiar—
    and every sound
    I had heard before.

    Every step
    echoed louder
    as I marched
    with purpose.

    Until I was stopped
    in my tracks—

    I heard it,
    an angel’s voice.
    It called to me.

    Slowly,
    my footsteps
    faded
    until her voice
    was all I could hear.

    The haze thinned,
    as if the world itself
    was holding its breath,
    waiting for me
    to turn toward her.

    And so—
    I did.

    My heart stilled,
    caught between fear
    and something softer,
    something that felt
    like remembering.

    Eyes locked—
    hers
    and mine.

    She smiled.
    I softened.

    Step
    after step,
    I drew closer.

    Until her hand
    met my cheek,
    and I fell
    to my knees—
    tired,
    exhausted
    from wandering,
    searching.

    A single finger—
    that’s all it took,
    and we were
    eye to eye
    again.

    “Rowan,”
    her voice sounded distant,
    even though
    she stood right in front of me.
    “Come to me.
    Come see
    the Philippines.”

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

  • 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]

  • Another Fire | A Poem About Chaos, Power, and a Fractured World

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from paying attention.

    Not just to your own life–but to the world as a whole. The patterns. The repetition. The way the same problems resurface, louder each time, while the people most affected are the ones with the least control over any of it.

    Another Fire comes from that place.

    It’s not a solution. It’s not even an attempt to be balanced.

    It’s a reaction–to the feeling that everything is happening all at once, that crises stack faster than they can be addressed, and that somewhere along the way, empathy gets lost in the noise.

    At its core, this piece questions something simple, but uncomfortable:

    How did we get to a point where it’s easier to see each other as enemies… than to question the systems that put us in conflict to begin with?

    This isn’t about having all the answers.

    It’s about refusing to look away.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person watching a city with multiple fires burning, symbolizing global chaos and systemic conflict
    While we burn, someone else decides where the fire spreads.

    Another Fire
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been lost
    for a while now—
    eyes locked on the world.

    I’m just wondering how…
    how did we let it
    get like this?

    It’s a mess,
    everyone’s stressed—
    except the billionaires.

    Stacking money,
    sitting higher than fear.

    Profits rise
    as civilians die.

    And everywhere we look…
    another fire.

    We can’t tackle one problem,
    before five more pop up.
    It’s like we’re frozen—stuck.

    Half the population seems fine with it,
    the rest of us screaming,
    what the fuck?

    The whole world’s running out of luck.

    It’s like it’s designed
    to slowly chip away—
    grip, rip, strip away
    your humanity.

    Driving us straight
    into insanity.

    Because it’s insane to me—
    how we can look
    at another human being
    and see an enemy.

    When the only real enemy
    isn’t standing across from us—

    but above us.

    Deciding
    who fights,
    and who dies.

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

  • Protective Instinct | A Poem About Responsibility, Care, and Growing Up

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    You don’t have to be a parent to understand what it means to protect someone.

    There are roles we step into without being asked—moments where instinct takes over, where someone younger or more vulnerable needs stability, guidance, or simply someone willing to stand between them and whatever they’re facing.

    This piece comes from that space.

    From being young, but still feeling responsible. From showing up in ways that weren’t expected, but felt necessary. From learning early on what it means to care for someone beyond yourself.

    It’s not the same as parenting.

    But it’s close enough to understand the weight of it— the instinct, the worry, the quiet responsibility that doesn’t switch off.

    And the pride that comes from knowing you helped someone grow into who they’re becoming.

    — Rowan Evans

    Older teen standing protectively in front of a younger person during a storm, symbolizing care and responsibility
    Some roles aren’t given—they’re stepped into.

    Protective Instinct
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I may not be a parent,
    but I understand
    how that could shift your mind.

    How you’d take
    a bullet—
    a missile—
    whatever it took.

    Because I’ve stepped
    into protective roles,
    been the one
    to step in
    when they felt
    enclosed.

    I was safety.
    I gave them space
    to grow.

    I was just eighteen,
    they were five years
    younger than me.
    But still—
    I took them
    under my wing.

    It wasn’t taught—
    it was instinct.

    I worried through
    earthquakes and typhoons,
    helped with homework,
    asked why they were
    online before noon.
    “Don’t you have school?”

    So no—
    I may not be a parent.

    But I think it’s apparent:
    I understand the dynamic,
    the panic—
    better than most would.

    I’ve stepped up
    in other ways.

    I’ve helped raise queens,
    and guided kings
    to better days.

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

  • Beneath the Surface | A Poem About Deep Connection and Vulnerability

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece comes from a place of wanting more than surface-level connection.

    It’s easy to exist in spaces where we show only what’s safe–what’s presentable, what won’t be questioned too deeply. But I’ve always been drawn to what lives underneath that. The quiet parts. The complicated parts. The things people carry but don’t always speak out loud.

    This poem isn’t just about seeing someone–it’s about being trusted with what’s beneath the surface. The scars, the thoughts, the moments that shaped them in ways the world doesn’t always get to witness.

    There’s a kind of intimacy in that. Not in fixing or changing someone, but in understanding them. In holding space for everything they are, even the parts that feel hidden or unfinished.

    At its core, this piece is about connection–not the easy kind, but the kind that asks you to slow down, to listen, and to see someone fully.

    And maybe, to be seen the same way.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing at the edge of water with a glowing emotional world beneath the surface representing vulnerability and depth
    The surface is safe—but the truth lives beneath it.

    Beneath the Surface
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Why are so many okay with
    settling at the surface?
    I want to dig deeper—
    get to the core of you.

    See where the roots lie,
    the ties that bind—
    let me see the universe
    behind your eyes.

    Windows to a galaxy
    all your own
    and I want to call,
    at least one of those worlds—
    my home.

    Let me go beyond
    what the eyes can see,
    let me peer within,
    let your soul breathe.

    Take a breath,
    relax.

    I just want to know—
    I want to see the essence,
    the truth,
    And all of the scars
    you don’t disclose.

    I want to hear the stories
    of the battles fought,
    the wars waged
    in silent thought.

    The ones
    nobody else knew—
    I want to help mend
    the fractures in you.

    The surface is safe,
    but I want the depths,
    the places
    where your heart has wept.
    I want to touch
    the parts untouched by light—
    where dreams
    and fears take flight.

    Let me see the storm
    inside your soul,
    the cracks,
    the pieces,
    the parts—
    that don’t feel whole.

    Because—
    I want to understand.

    Not just the surface,
    but every grain of sand.
    Every emotion, every tear—
    All of the things
    that make you real,
    that make you—

    You.

    Not the mask,
    not the show,
    But the truth
    you often don’t show.
    I want to see—
    to feel,
    and to know.

    The beautiful chaos
    that makes you whole.

    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]

  • Can’t Tell the Difference | A Poem About Dreams, Memory, and Love

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes the mind doesn’t separate things as cleanly as we’d like.

    Memory, imagination, longing–they start to overlap. What you’ve felt in dreams can become just as vivid as something you’ve physically lived. And after a while, the line between the two doesn’t disappear… it just stops mattering in the same way.

    Can’t Tell the Difference lives in the space.

    It’s not about confusion in a chaotic sense–it’s about the quiet disorientation of something feeling real enough to hold weight, even if you prove it happened the way you remember.

    Because emotion doesn’t always follow logic.

    And sometimes the question isn’t “did this happen?”
    It’s “why did it feel like it did?”

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing above a glowing city at night, with blurred dreamlike figures walking hand-in-hand below, symbolizing the line between memory and reality.
    Where memory and dreams blur—
    and feeling becomes its own kind of truth.

    Can’t Tell the Difference
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand on the edge
    of what’s real—
    and what isn’t.

    But I can’t tell
    the difference.

    Is it a dream,
    or a memory?

    I don’t know anymore.

    I’ve held your hand before.
    I know I have—
    there is no way,
    that was just a dream.

    It was too real.

    I could feel
    the sweat on your skin,
    the heat in the air—
    humidity clinging,

    busy streets alive
    with Jeepney beeps.

    So what is real?
    Is it what you’ve lived—
    or what you feel?

    Was it real
    or a dream,
    when I looked you in the eye,
    and said—

    I love you.

    Because I felt that.

    I felt the words
    leave my lips—

    I love you…

    echoing,
    like a record skipped.

    Every night
    in my dreams,
    I meet you
    on city streets.

    We walk,
    we talk,
    hand in hand—

    conversations
    only I could imagine.

    We talk about life,
    but never the future—
    just the now.

    The current moment.

    Because we move the same—
    drifting forward,
    unchained.

    And still—

    I stand on the edge
    of what’s real,
    and what isn’t.

    And I can’t tell
    the difference.

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

  • Following the Thread – A Poem About Finding Your Way Back to Yourself

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Lately I’ve been writing a lot about threads – those quiet lines of connection that keep us tethered when our minds drift too far from ourselves.

    This poem grew out of that same idea. Sometimes the way back isn’t a sudden realization or a dramatic turning point. Sometimes it’s just a familiar voice, a face appearing in the fog, a thread you didn’t realize you were holding onto until you followed it home.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person walking through foggy forest following a glowing thread of light symbolizing guidance and self-discovery.
    Sometimes the way back begins with a single thread.

    Following the Thread
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I was gone
    for a long time.
    Not in body,
    but in my mind—
    I was wandering,
    unsure of what
    I thought I’d find.

    I was walking
    with eyes closed,
    balancing tightropes,
    and I had high hopes—
    that things would work out
    in the end.
    But I was dreaming.

    The only thing
    that opened my eyes,
    your face
    catching me by surprise.
    Your voice
    cutting through silence,
    a common thread
    guiding me through the fog.

    Night after night,
    dream after dream—
    the same thread
    leading me
    through mental scenes.
    And somehow,
    by following you,
    I found my way
    back to me.

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

  • Off-Center, Still Tethered – A Poem About Mental Disconnection and Finding Your Way Back

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes the mind shifts slightly out of alignment. Not enough to call it depression or anxiety – just enough to feel off-center.

    This piece came from trying to describe that strange mental state where nothing is obviously wrong, yet everything feels a little disconnected. In moments like that, even a single steady thread can be enough to help you find your way back.

    — Rowan Evans

    Silhouette of a person standing slightly off center at a quiet shoreline at dusk, symbolizing mental disconnection and reflection.
    Sometimes you’re not lost—just slightly off-center, following the thread that leads you back.

    Off-Center, Still Tethered
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I don’t feel like myself lately.
    Like something is a little off, maybe.
    Something in my mental health slipped,
    it’s not depression or anxiety—
    it’s something else entirely.

    I’m not sad—just disconnected,
    severed threads rest on the ground
    around me as I sit in my mind—
    mentally exhausted. Body on autopilot.
    It’s like the floor shifted slightly,
    half an inch to the left
    when I wasn’t looking.
    Now every step feels right,
    but not quite—
    like something’s missing.

    I’ve always found
    that my mind
    and the world
    didn’t align.
    So I’ve always been
    a little off center.
    But this is more than that,
    it’s like a panic attack
    without the panic,
    not to be dramatic.

    It’s like depression,
    without the sadness.
    Just heavy weight,
    overwhelm and
    lack of motivation
    in social situations.

    That piles on,
    now I’m overwhelmed
    and feeling guilty.
    So I disappear into myself,
    but there’s one thread left
    tethered to the outside—
    the one constant in my thoughts.

    It’s the same thread
    that it’s always been,
    for the last year now.
    The same thoughts,
    that have kept me grounded—
    even when my head was in the clouds.
    So it is that thread,
    I will follow
    to find my way out.

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

  • Learning Not to Run – A Poem About Fear of Attachment and Choosing to Stay

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes the hardest thing to admit isn’t how much someone means to you – it’s how afraid you are of losing them.

    This piece isn’t about drama or desperation. It’s about recognizing a reflex I developed a long time ago, and choosing to stay present instead of running.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing at the edge of calm water at dusk in reflective pose.
    Staying is sometimes braver than running.

    Learning Not to Run
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been feeling this fear lately,
    it’s a heavy weight in my chest
    and it sometimes locks me down.
    It keeps me trapped inside—
    hidden away in my mind.
    It’s not that I don’t want to reach out,
    it’s like I honestly forget how.

    I don’t talk about it really,
    but I push people away
    when I feel they mean too much.
    When every thought
    begins to center them,
    and I see them in every dream.
    I know what that means.

    I got so used
    to people walking away.
    They’d hardly
    ever stay.
    So I learned
    to protect myself.
    When I felt
    myself
    getting too attached,
    I’d pull back.

    And that feeling?
    It still lingers,
    it’s a constant battle.
    I don’t want to be like this.
    But I struggle.
    I’m still scared to show
    too much.
    I’m too weird,
    I struggle to
    bite my tongue.

    I guess that’s why
    the fear still lingers,
    I’m afraid I’ll say too much.
    Be too exposed
    with nowhere to go,
    stuck in the open.

    What’s the worst that can happen?
    That’s what they keep asking,
    they say it’s rejection.
    But for me? It’s the end of
    the connection.
    And I’m not like this
    all the time.
    Just when I slip
    and trip
    into the depths
    of my mind.

    Now with a breath taken,
    no longer shaking—
    I write to you.
    Even knowing
    you may never see it,
    but I can only say this
    because you make me brave.

    You make me brave in ways,
    I don’t know how to explain—
    because you haven’t
    done a thing.
    But still, because of you
    I’ve changed.
    I’ve grown in ways
    I didn’t know
    I needed.

    And I won’t say it,
    even as it sits
    on the tip
    of my tongue—
    but what I will say,
    is this:

    You mean more to me
    than most,
    and even when I struggle
    to stay present
    in the world outside
    my mind—
    you’re still in my thoughts
    all the time.

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