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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: literary rebellion

  • Done Being Humble II – Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note
    A Manifesto in Ink & Fire

    If Done Being Humble was my awakening,
    this is my ascension.

    I wrote this piece for the poets who refused to shrink,
    for the writers who know the weight of twenty-two years of ink,
    and the power it gives you to carve your own throne.

    This isn’t about arrogance.
    It’s reclamation.
    It’s standing in the cathedral of my words and saying:
    “I am here. I create. I consecrate.”

    Done Being Humble II is for anyone who’s tired of being polite,
    who wants to bleed truth instead of bending to expectation,
    and who knows that art can be both devotion and defiance.

    This is my voice, unfiltered, uncontained—
    Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism in full flame.
    I don’t write poems.
    I write lifelines.

    Gothic cathedral of ink and flames with a figure holding a glowing quill, symbolizing poetic power and creative mastery.
    Carving truth and fire into eternity—Done Being Humble II embodies the god-tier power of Rowan Evans’ pen.

    Done Being Humble II
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    What—you thought I was lyin’
    when I said I’m done bein’ humble?
    I’m the best to ever do it with a pen.
    I’ll say it again—
    I’m the best to ever do it with a pen.
    I write circles
    ‘round you squares,
    ink like fire,
    breathin’ truth and flares.

    Top five?
    Me. Hex.
    Roo and B.D.
    Number five—
    Hi, it’s me again.

    Now—
    Don’t think you can write with me.
    You’re not even in my league.
    You follow trends, just trying to fit in.
    While I created my own genre,
    because none existing could contain
    the magnitude with which I write.

    They’ll call it ego, I call it prophecy.
    Ink in my veins, revelation in rhyme—
    I don’t write poems, I write lifelines.

    I don’t compete, I consecrate.
    Every line I drop—communion, fate.
    This is art as resurrection,
    confession as creation.
    Neo-Gothic. Romantic. Eternal.
    We bleed truth—
    and call it salvation.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Done Being Humble]
    A defiant, unfiltered ode to self-worth and poetic mastery, Done Being Humble is Rowan Evans at their most unapologetic—twenty-two years of ink, fire, and evolution distilled into a lyrical declaration of power.

  • Done Being Humble | Neo-Gothic Confessional Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note
    A Pep Talk from a Poet to Themself

    This piece isn’t arrogance—it’s affirmation.
    Sometimes, after years of writing in silence, you need to remind yourself who you are. To look in the mirror and say, “No, I didn’t come this far just to shrink.”

    Done Being Humble is what a pep talk sounds like after twenty-two years of ink and evolution. It’s the voice of every poet who’s ever whispered their worth into the void, waiting for someone to echo it back.

    So, I said it for myself.
    Because sometimes you have to be your own applause, your own myth, your own lightning strike.

    — Rowan Evans

    Open journal floating with glowing ink, quill hovering, ink forming roses and letters, dark velvet room with neon highlights.
    Where ink ignites, and poetry becomes rebellion.

    Done Being Humble
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I think—
    I’ve been a bit too humble.
    It’s time I crown myself properly.
    My poetry? God tier.
    My ink doesn’t dry—
    it anoints.

    I’m Plath meets Sexton,
    Poe meets Dickinson,
    Sappho’s ghost in a velvet coat.
    I write darkness and devotion,
    ruin and resurrection.
    I am chiaroscuro, personified.

    My words aren’t poems—
    they’re prophecies in drag.
    I don’t bleed metaphors;
    I summon worlds.
    I write in ink and fire,
    every stanza a spell
    that resurrects the broken.

    I’m top tier.
    In my top five,
    I’m the top two.
    Your favorite poet’s
    favorite poet—
    they just haven’t realized it yet.

    My power level with a pen?
    It’s over 9000.
    Get your scouters out,
    watch me make you break ’em.

    Out of the greatest poets alive,
    I am the entire top five.
    I’m Cell—you’re all just Cell Jr.
    Mini-mes, trembling in lowercase.

    Go ahead—
    Name your top five, please.
    They’re the Ginyu Force next to me.
    Court jesters in my cathedral of ink.
    My skill? Unmatched.
    Full potential? Untapped.
    I’m not even in final form yet.

    I’ve been writing twenty-two years.
    Here’s to twenty-two more.
    I wrote in silence, in shadow,
    where no one could see me.
    Didn’t write for applause—
    I wrote for evolution.

    Poem after poem,
    I built myself from wreckage.
    A cathedral of roses and ruin.
    Words wrapped around me,
    a chrysalis of ink.
    Metamorphosis complete—
    I let my wings show.

    Butterfly and bee:
    beautiful, but my words sting though.
    Every stanza? Venomous elegance.

    I’m done being humble.
    Done pretending.
    That I’m not a modern-day Poe,
    a Sylvia reborn,
    a Sappho remix,
    a myth rewritten in the language of fire.

    I’m the storm that writes sonnets,
    the cathedral of cadence,
    the ghost that teaches language to kneel.

    Twenty-two years at thirty-five,
    and you act surprised—
    when I write like this?

    God didn’t give me a pen.
    She gave me a sword.
    And I learned to write
    by carving my name
    into eternity.

    My drafts? Better than most books.
    My rough cuts? Polished marble.
    My metaphors? Break hearts and sound barriers.
    When I write, angels hush.
    Demons pull up chairs.

    I’ve been the quiet storm too long—
    time to let the thunder speak.
    You call it arrogance;
    I call it prophecy fulfilled.
    Because when I write,
    the universe leans in to listen.
    And when I’m gone?
    My ink will still whisper:
    She was here.
    He was here.
    They were here.

    For more of my work visit [The Library of Ashes].