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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: introspective writing

  • Just Knowing You Has Been Enough | A Poem About Fear, Love, and Emotional Connection

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some feelings become difficult to carry once they stop being hypothetical.

    You rehearse the words in your head, hide them in poems, disguise them as metaphors, bury them in “what ifs” and dream sequences—because saying them plainly makes them real.

    This piece came from that space between silence and confession.

    The strange place where fear and honesty start sounding alike.

    Not fear of loving someone.

    Fear of changing something that already matters deeply to you.

    Because sometimes the connection itself becomes so important that risking it feels terrifying.

    And sometimes love isn’t about perfection at all.

    Sometimes it’s just about seeing someone clearly—and caring anyway.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person sits beside a softly lit window at night holding an open notebook in a quiet reflective atmosphere.
    Some truths stay hidden in poems long before they’re ever spoken aloud.

    Just Knowing You Has Been Enough
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I went quiet,
    but you never left my mind.

    I was silent—
    I had a lot to say,
    just didn’t know how to say it.

    I was afraid.
    Scared out of my mind.

    Everything I could have said,
    it didn’t feel right.
    It felt too heavy—
    too hard to carry.

    I had to set it down
    for a while.

    I had to sit with it,
    the words only spoken
    in my dreams.

    Dreams where,
    you never have the chance
    to respond.

    It feels wrong.

    But I wouldn’t want to
    speak for you.

    It’s been this way
    for a while now.

    I get too in my head,
    too hung up on
    what I have said—

    and what I want to say.

    They aren’t always
    the same.

    I’ve dropped hints
    in coded lines,
    wrote the words plain
    in poems about dreams—
    knowing they’d get overlooked.

    They’re not serious.

    But know this,
    the words written here
    are me being honest:

    I’m scared.
    I’m terrified,
    it’s true—
    but I really do
    love you.

    There’s no other way
    to say it.

    Because what is love—
    if not bias?

    And I am biased.

    Now what’s bias,
    if not seeing perfection
    where there is none?

    Because I know you’re not perfect—
    I’ve seen the cracks.
    I’ve listened to your stories,
    heard the lore—

    but here’s the thing,
    it’s not about perfection
    or lack thereof—
    it never has been.

    It’s about connection.

    It always has been.
    That’s all I’ve ever wanted,
    whatever shape that takes—
    I can be happy.

    Just knowing you
    has been enough.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [The Streets I Sleep When I Walk]
    “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

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

  • Separate Timelines | A Poem About Distance, Time Zones, and Unspoken Love

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve always been fascinated by the strange emotional weight of time zones.

    How someone can become such a consistent part of your thoughts that you start measuring your own day against theirs.

    Checking the clock. Wondering if they’re asleep. Wondering what their sky looks like while you’re staring at yours.

    At some point, distance stops feeling geographical and starts feeling temporal.

    That feeling became the foundation for this piece.

    The airport in the dream felt symbolic almost immediately while writing it—a place built entirely around arrivals, departures, waiting, and crossing paths for brief moments before separating again.

    And in the middle of that emptiness, there’s this presence that feels familiar before it’s visible.

    I think that’s what emotional connection can feel like sometimes.

    Not certainty. Not possession. Not even clarity.

    Just recognition.

    This poem also came from the tension between wanting to speak honestly and being afraid of what honesty might change.

    Because vulnerability always carries risk.

    Sometimes the fear isn’t rejection itself— it’s the possibility of losing a connection that already means something to you.

    So the poem lives in that suspended space: between dream and waking, between silence and confession, between leaving and returning.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person sits alone inside an empty airport terminal at night while distant runway lights glow outside.
    Some connections feel close even across separate timelines.

    Separate Timelines
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I had a dream last night—
    I sat alone in an empty airport.
    Not a soul. Not a sound.
    I was the only one around.

    It was just me
    as far as the eye could see.

    Yet, I heard the hum
    of jet engines still—

    Then there was
    the sound of movement,
    footsteps echoing in the distance.

    Eyes scanning—
    trying to locate the source.

    Slowly—

    I rise.

    Getting to my feet,
    I stumble
    trying to get myself steady.

    The footsteps grow clearer—

    slow, deliberate,
    like someone who already knew
    I’d be here.

    And in the stillness
    of this moment—

    silence folds in on itself,
    waiting for me
    to decide
    whether to run
    or stay.

    The footsteps stop.

    My breath catches,
    not from fear,
    but from the strange familiarity
    of a presence I can’t yet see.

    And my legs feel heavy—

    like they remember something
    my mind doesn’t.

    I can’t see you—
    but I feel your presence.

    It’s like you and I
    live on separate timelines,
    simultaneous
    but different—

    like we can only exist like this.

    Because—
    my day
    is your night,

    and your day
    is mine
    just the same.

    It might seem simple to some,
    might even sound a little dumb—

    to get caught up
    on things like that—

    but I’ve been stuck
    on her time
    since I put widget
    on my phone.

    Listen to me…

    there I go again,
    loose lips
    let truths slip—

    even when they’re
    better left unsaid.

    Not because I didn’t want to say it.

    I did.

    But I don’t know
    if the timing’s right,
    or how you feel—

    but I do know
    you’re worth the risk
    of my heart shattering,
    I just don’t know
    if I’m strong enough
    to handle a connection
    breaking.

    So I keep quiet—

    not because
    I don’t want to speak,
    but because
    I’m scared to.

    So I sink
    back into my seat—
    and I feel your presence fade.

    I don’t know if you left
    or if I’m awake—

    but I promise…

    I promise,
    I’ll be back.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life.

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

  • From Here, Not Of Here – A Poem About Cultural Disconnection and Belonging

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a difference between disliking a place… and feeling fundamentally misaligned with it.

    This piece isn’t about hatred. It isn’t about believing one country is morally superior to another.

    It’s about disconnect.

    About living somewhere your entire life while still feeling emotionally, culturally, and spiritually out of phase with it.

    I’ve written about this feeling for years now in different forms: through oceans, through maps, through eastward imagery, through sleep schedules that drift toward different time zones, through the idea of being “from” somewhere but not truly “of” it.

    And the older I get, the more I realize this feeling was never temporary.

    It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t escapism.

    It was direction.

    Some people spend their whole lives trying to become rooted where they were planted.

    But some of us are shaped by movement.

    Some of us were always meant to leave.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing alone on an American street feeling disconnected from their surroundings
    Some people are born where they are meant to be. Others are meant to journey beyond it.

    From Here, Not Of Here
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stood still—
    between existing
    and not.

    I stood still—
    on the streets
    I’ve always walked.

    Talking to the same people
    I’ve always talked to.

    I stood still—
    that’s hard for someone like me.

    I was born to flee,
    not to run—
    nor escape,
    but to leave behind
    these rigid states.

    I was destined—
    to map my own fate,
    to tell my own story.

    Since I was born
    every step away from,
    has been a step toward—

    at fourteen,
    I started running.
    Picking up speed—

    even though the roads
    have been long,
    I know the path
    I’m on isn’t wrong.

    But every morning,
    I wake up at nine AM—
    I know my sleep schedule
    shifted again,
    further from where
    I want to be.

    So I mutter to myself:

    Seryoso ka ba, pero…

    I’m tired.

    I’m tired of fighting
    a current never meant for me—

    tired of existing in a place
    that’s supposed to be home,
    but I feel foreign—

    like this is the land
    I’m from—
    but not the land
    I’m of—

    I was meant
    for more,
    somewhere far
    beyond these shores.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Out of Sync]
    A reflective free verse poem about emotional displacement, shifting sleep cycles, and feeling spiritually drawn toward another side of the world.

    [Roles Assigned]
    A quiet exploration of modern life, invisible burdens, and the roles people inherit before they ever choose who they are.

    [Global Takeover]
    What if home isn’t a place—but something you build from the music you love? Global Takeover blends sound, culture, and identity into one borderless space.

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

  • Reading the Sky | A Poem About Depression, Healing, and Emotional Cycles

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    People sometimes talk about depression like it’s constant sadness.

    For me, it’s rarely that simple.

    Sometimes it’s pressure. Sometimes it’s exhaustion. Sometimes it’s numbness so quiet you don’t notice how deep you’ve sunk until something shifts and suddenly you can breathe again.

    That’s where this piece came from.

    Not from a dramatic breakthrough— just a morning where the weight felt lighter.

    And when you’ve carried storms inside yourself for long enough, even small moments of relief can feel almost unreal.

    But one of the hardest things to learn about living with depression is this:

    good days don’t erase bad ones, and bad days don’t erase good ones.

    The storm passing doesn’t mean it’ll never return.

    It means you survived it long enough to recognize clear skies when they arrive.

    That’s what Reading the Sky became about for me.

    Not curing the storm. Not defeating it.

    Just learning its patterns. Learning when the pressure shifts. Learning how to keep breathing through both the thunder and the quiet afterward.

    And maybe most importantly—

    allowing yourself to enjoy the clean air when it finally comes.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person stands beneath clearing storm clouds as sunlight begins breaking through the sky after rain.
    Some victories are simply learning how to breathe again after the storm passes.

    Reading the Sky
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I woke today
    feeling different—

    like everything
    had changed,
    in an instant.

    Like the storm inside
    had finally gone silent.
    The winds had died,
    but I was alive.

    Smile on my face—
    for the first time,
    didn’t feel out of place.

    I could still see
    lightning on the edges
    of my perception—
    feel the rumble
    of thunder
    in my chest.

    It was softer now.

    This storm had passed,
    but another
    would surely come.

    It’s a cycle—

    and these things
    have a season.

    The storms?

    They come
    and go.

    That’ll never change.

    It’s learning
    to read the sky,
    to feel
    when the pressure shifts.

    Now let me say this plain…

    I’ve got depression.

    It lives in my chest,
    waiting to teach me lessons.

    It’s a storm
    I’ve weathered—

    more than
    any one person should.

    That’s what makes
    days like these—
    feel like the cleanest air
    I’ve ever breathed.

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

  • Altars and Roses – A Gothic Poem About Poetry, Devotion, and Emotional Architecture

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece started as me messing around while listening to Ez Mil.

    At first, I was just playing with rhyme patterns and cadence—thinking about internal rhyme, implied rhyme, layered phrasing, all the little mechanics that make writing feel musical.

    But somewhere in the middle, it shifted.

    Because the more I write, the more I realize my poetry isn’t just expression anymore. It’s architecture.

    I’ve built recurring symbols, recurring imagery, recurring emotional spaces. Ravens. Cathedrals. Ghosts. Roses. Fire. Silence.

    Over time, they stopped feeling like random aesthetics and started feeling like a language of their own.

    And beneath all the gothic imagery and dramatic metaphors, there’s something surprisingly simple holding it together:

    care.

    Not grand gestures. Not fantasy.

    Just wanting to make someone’s day softer in small ways.

    This piece became about both sides of that: the mythic voice, and the human one underneath it.

    — Rowan Evans

    Gothic writing desk with roses, candles, ravens, and handwritten poetry
    Beneath every cathedral of metaphor, there is still a human hand reaching gently toward someone else.

    Altars and Roses
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    What I do
    with a pen is sick—

    the way I
    weave rhymes
    inside lines,
    with implied rhymes,
    inside rhymes.

    And don’t get me started
    on the imagery—

    I took Poe’s ravens
    and made them
    a centerpiece.

    I’ve built—
    cathedrals in my rhymes,
    altars to devotion,
    worship in reverence.

    I’ve sculpted
    roses from the ruin—

    I’ve painted pictures
    with words—
    a real gothic Bob Ross.

    I’ve talked to my grave
    in mausoleums—
    with ravens as my witness.

    I’ve sat with my silence
    and I’ve spoken with ghosts
    not my own.

    I carry the weight
    of everyone I’ve witnessed.

    And to the certain someone
    that occupies my mind—

    you still hold a special place.

    Even when my mind
    closes me off—
    it’s you
    that keeps me holding on.

    I’d open the fan for you—
    if you asked me to—

    because I want to do the little things
    that’ll make you smile.

    No questions asked.
    No sweat off my back—

    I’d do it.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Finish What You Started]
    A dark introspective poem about confronting the past, carrying old versions of yourself, and realizing that the only way forward is through the fire.

    [The Shadow and the Spark]
    A psychologically charged free verse poem using Mortal Kombat imagery to explore anxiety, depression, identity, and the realization that survival matters more than victory.

    [Out of Sync]
    A reflective free verse poem about emotional displacement, shifting sleep cycles, and feeling spiritually drawn toward another side of the world.

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

  • The Shadow and the Spark – A Mortal Kombat Inspired Poem About Mental Conflict and Survival

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    For a long time, I treated parts of myself like enemies.

    The anger. The depression. The anxiety. The numbness. The intensity.

    I thought healing meant defeating those parts—silencing them, overpowering them, forcing them out of existence.

    But that mindset turns your own mind into a battleground.

    This piece uses the language and imagery of Mortal Kombat because fighting games have always fascinated me symbolically. Every character feels like an exaggerated emotional state: rage, grief, control, fear, vengeance, power, identity.

    And sometimes living with mental illness feels exactly like that: constant internal matches, different versions of yourself stepping into the arena one after another.

    But the ending became something unexpected while I was writing it.

    Because eventually I realized: the goal isn’t to destroy the shadow.

    The shadow is still part of me.

    This piece stopped being about conflict halfway through writing it.

    It became about coexistence.

    — Rowan Evans

    Figure standing beside their shadow in a supernatural arena of fire, ice, and lightning
    Every fighter shared the same player.

    The Shadow and the Spark
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Sometimes I lose sight of me,
    and honestly,
    I don’t like this side of me.
    When darkness takes over
    inside of me—
    it seeps out, Noob Saibot,
    shadow right beside me.

    I’ve weathered storms,
    in Netherrealm—
    trapped in Mortal Kombat
    with a version of myself.

    Bi-Han
    versus
    Kuai Liang

    And that’s just one side of me,
    I’ve got the fire of Hanzo Hasashi—
    it burns deep inside, smoldering.
    Shirai Ryu and Lin Kuei,
    fire and ice, inside of me.

    It’s a feeling, I can’t escape—
    Sindel screams inside my brain.
    Skull rattles, skeleton shakes,
    it’s a fatality that shakes me awake.

    The shadows
    try to silence—
    screams,
    fire and
    ice collide—
    steam.

    It’s pressure
    released.

    But it’s still a war inside,
    even when I can’t see.

    Shadows move.
    Screams echo.

    Kindling ignites.
    Water freeze.

    Each takes its place
    center stage,
    face to face—

    round one.
    Round two.
    Flawless victory.

    The shadow
    beat the scream,

    silenced the noise.

    And the next battle
    takes place—
    two elements step in,
    who’s going to win?

    Fire and ice,
    passion and apathy—
    I say “get over here,”
    to those in need.

    So passion takes the lead,
    but the shadow creeps—
    it seems to come from
    anywhere and nowhere,
    above, below—
    from where it’ll strike,
    no one knows.

    Pause.
    Select fighter.

    Shit’s about to get
    electric,
    Raiden is on the move—
    Noob gets a shock to the system.

    Shadow shocked.

    Uppercut. (Toasty!)
    Stage shift.

    New arena
    but the fight
    continues.

    The shadow
    and the spark—

    the light
    and the dark—

    —but neither side
    can truly win.

    Finish him?

    No.

    I’m tired
    of fighting myself.

    So I lower my fists,
    let the arena lights dim—

    and for the first time,
    the shadow
    stands beside me
    instead of against me.

    Because the shadow
    is still me.

    The fire
    is still me.

    The scream,
    the silence,
    the ice,
    the lightning—

    every fighter
    shares the same
    player.

    Controller shaking
    in my hands,
    I finally understand—

    this was never
    about victory.

    Only survival.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    Previous:
    [East Knows My Name]
    A deeply introspective poem about emotional displacement, cultural disconnect, and feeling spiritually drawn toward a place far from where you were born.

    [Out of Sync]
    A reflective free verse poem about emotional displacement, shifting sleep cycles, and feeling spiritually drawn toward another side of the world.

    [The Waves That Call Me]
    A reflective free verse poem about doubt, perseverance, and learning to trust the pull toward the life you truly want.

    Upcoming:
    [Finish What You Started]
    A dark introspective poem about confronting the past, carrying old versions of yourself, and realizing that the only way forward is through the fire.

    [Altars and Roses]
    A gothic free verse poem about poetic identity, recurring symbolism, devotion, and the quiet humanity beneath dramatic imagery.

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

  • Two Americans – A Poem About Identity, Culture, and Not Belonging

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece wasn’t planned.

    It started as a stream of thought—just letting whatever was there come out without trying to shape it into something clean or intentional.

    Somewhere in that flow, a pattern surfaced.

    The realization that you can share a label with someone—same country, same language—and still feel like you’re speaking from completely different worlds.

    This isn’t about rejecting where I’m from.

    It’s about acknowledging that belonging isn’t always defined by it.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two people standing apart representing cultural and emotional disconnect despite shared identity.
    Same label. Same place. Different worlds.

    Two Americans
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Time flies
    when you’re lost inside
    a wandering mind
    as days turn to nights.

    It’s a cycle—
    thoughts repeat,
    recycled.

    Up before the sun,
    still up
    when the day is done.

    I smile
    when the moon
    greets me.

    Waves crash down
    as thoughts echo out—
    it’s the tide
    that leads me.

    Drifting at sea,
    looking for a place
    that’ll hold me.

    It’s not here.

    I’m not a
    star-spangled,
    salute-the-flag
    patriot.

    I don’t understand
    nationalistic
    points of view.

    That’s why I drift a lot—
    lost in thought
    like I forgot
    how to talk.

    “You’re an American?”
    “Me too.”

    “You speak English?”
    “Me too.”

    Then why
    does it feel like
    two different languages
    when I speak
    with you?

    Two Americans.

    Two different
    cultural views.

    Same place—
    but never
    felt the same.

    Journey into the Hexverse!

    [None of It Means a Thing]
    Success, fame, and money don’t mean much without someone to share them with. None of It Means a Thing explores love, purpose, and what truly makes life feel complete.

    [Of No Single Nation]
    What if belonging isn’t tied to where you’re from? Of No Single Nation explores identity beyond borders, reframing home as something found in connection rather than geography.

    [Coordinates of Escape]
    A deeply introspective poem about overthinking, emotional loops, and the desire to start over. Coordinates of Escape traces the journey from internal chaos to a deliberate destination—both physical and personal.

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

  • I Don’t Mean Life – A Poem About Misunderstood Words, Identity, and Not Belonging

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There are phrases people hear… but don’t always understand.

    “I don’t want to be here” is one of them.

    It can sound final, heavy, even alarming—but sometimes it isn’t about wanting to disappear.

    Sometimes it’s about wanting relief.

    From pressure. From identity that doesn’t feel like your own. From a place that feels more like confinement than belonging.

    This piece is about that distinction.

    About being misunderstood—not because you’re unclear, but because people hear fear before they hear meaning.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing behind a map-shaped barrier, symbolizing feeling trapped by identity and place
    Sometimes “I don’t want to be here” means I don’t belong—not that I want to disappear.

    I Don’t Mean Life
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I say, “I don’t want to be here,”
    and people panic—
    “Don’t say that,” they shout
    as I struggle to find a way out.

    They worry—
    thinking the words
    mean death.

    But really—
    I just want to lift
    the weight
    from my chest.

    When I say
    I don’t want to be here—
    I don’t mean life.
    I mean this place.

    These borders
    that have become
    a cage.

    Do you know
    what it’s like—

    to carry this weight?

    To feel fake,
    filled with self-hate,
    all because of
    where you’re from?

    They say
    I should be
    more like them.

    Handed labels,
    identity described—
    just an American
    in their eyes.

    But I’ve never
    felt like that
    in my life.

    Journey into the Hexverse!

    [Of No Single Nation]
    What if belonging isn’t tied to where you’re from? Of No Single Nation explores identity beyond borders, reframing home as something found in connection rather than geography.

    [Where the Tide Calls Me]
    What if feeling stuck isn’t about being lost—but about resisting where you’re meant to go? Where the Tide Calls Me explores belonging, movement, and the courage to follow an unseen pull.

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

  • None of It Means a Thing – A Poem About Love, Purpose, and Redefining Success

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a version of success that looks good from the outside.

    Recognition. Stability. Achievement.

    But none of it really answers a simpler question:

    Who is it for?

    This piece comes from realizing that the things we’re told to chase don’t always mean as much as we think they will—especially if there’s no one there to share them with.

    It’s not about rejecting success.

    It’s about redefining what makes it matter.

    — Rowan Evans

    Cozy home interior with two chairs by a window, representing companionship and shared life.
    Success means little if there’s no one there to share it with.

    None of It Means a Thing
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    This is me confessing—
    I don’t want success
    to bless me
    unless it’s you
    there with me.

    I don’t need
    a sea of fans
    screaming my name—
    I’m not
    chasing fame.

    I don’t need
    pockets lined with gold.
    I need just enough
    to make our lives easier—
    and I mean it.

    Because I’m trying
    to build a life
    that can sustain—
    I want to thrive,
    not just survive.

    I want to build
    a home.

    But none of it
    means a thing
    if there’s no one
    there to share it.

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

  • Dreaming of Other Streets – A Poem About Belonging, Memory, and Feeling Out of Place

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve had variations of this dream more times than I can count.

    Different streets. Different cities. But the feeling is always the same—familiar, grounded… like I’m not discovering something new, but returning to something I somehow already know.

    It’s a strange kind of recognition.

    Not tied to memory in any clear way, but still deeply felt. Like something in me understands the place, even if I don’t.

    This piece came from sitting with that feeling.

    Trying to understand whether it’s about location… or connection.

    Whether it’s about where I am—or who I haven’t found yet.

    — Rowan Evans

    Dreamlike empty city street at dusk with a lone figure walking through a familiar yet unfamiliar place.
    Some places feel like home—even when you’ve never been there.

    Dreaming of Other Streets
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I often dream
    of walking streets
    not my own.

    And they feel
    more like home
    than the only one
    I’ve ever known.

    As if my feet remember
    a life my body
    hasn’t lived—

    a map etched
    into bone
    long before
    I learned to read it.

    Like echoes
    of a life misplaced,
    a memory
    with no origin—
    a familiarity
    I can’t explain,
    but never question.

    Maybe it isn’t the streets
    I’m dreaming of.

    But the people
    who would walk them
    beside me—

    the ones who felt
    like home
    long before I knew
    what home meant.

    Maybe I wander
    because nowhere
    has ever held me
    long enough
    to claim me.

    So I keep searching
    for a place
    that feels like mine.

    In dreams,
    I walk with certainty—
    no hesitation,
    no fear,
    as if the ground itself
    knows my name.

    But waking,
    I am foreign
    even to myself.

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