←

Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: loneliness

  • Fragile Pulse — A Poem About Finding Humanity Beneath the Machinery | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Fragile Pulse came from watching the world move on autopilot—how easily people slip into routines, expectations, and identities that aren’t truly their own. It’s a poem about alienation, yes, but also about the quiet, stubborn spark that still lives beneath all that machinery.

    This piece is my reminder that even in places that feel lifeless or mechanical, there are moments of real humanity—small flickers of authenticity that reach back when we reach out. It’s about connection in a world that often forgets how to feel, and about what it means to notice the spark in someone who thought theirs had gone out.

    A fragile pulse is still a pulse. And sometimes, that’s enough to change everything.

    Illustration of a single glowing human figure surrounded by robotic, mechanical figures moving in a cold, dystopian cityscape.
    A fragile spark in a mechanical world — the pulse that refuses to fade.

    Fragile Pulse
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Oh, you’re here?

    Do you hear that?

    Listen—
    the hum of motors,
    the whir of gears.
    You see a land of people;
    I see a land of robots—
    not thinking,
    only following programs.

    They walk past you,
    faces blank,
    eyes fixed,
    hands moving in repetition,
    hearts forgotten in the chest,
    souls traded for schedules.

    And I watch—
    not with hope,
    not with judgment,
    but with quiet fascination
    at how easily the mind bends
    when freedom is a stranger.

    Do you hear it too?
    The faint pulse beneath the circuits,
    the tiny spark of something
    that refuses to be programmed.
    It’s fragile—
    like a candle in a storm,
    but it exists.
    I can feel it,
    even if the rest cannot.

    I reach out—
    not with force,
    not with commands,
    but with a touch gentle enough
    to tremble against wires and bone.

    Some notice;
    some do not,
    but the ones who do
    flicker for a moment—
    a shadow of thought
    breaking through the rhythm
    of their programming.

    And in that flicker,
    I see the impossible:
    a memory, a desire,
    a pulse that answers mine.
    A whisper shared
    between what is alive
    and what has almost forgotten how.

    Maybe it’s nothing,
    just a flicker in the dark,
    but even a single spark
    can set a world alight.
    I hold it close—
    this fragile pulse—
    and for a heartbeat,
    the land of robots
    becomes a land of us.

    If you enjoyed this piece, check out my full archive here: [The Library of Ashes]

  • Somewhere In-Between: A Non-Binary Reflection on Identity, Isolation, and Defiance

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is a reflection on identity, expectation, and self-perception. It pokes fun at the rigid “alpha/beta” hierarchies humans obsess over, while also embracing the awkward, complicated truth of being a loner—or a “lone wolf with no wolfly features.” It’s a celebration of existing somewhere in-between: neither fitting the molds others prescribe, nor apologizing for being too observant, too complex, too queer, too alive in your own terms. Humor and honesty are both weapons here, used to dismantle clichés and to claim space for a self that refuses binaries.

    Non-binary fairy standing under an autumn tree, surrounded by falling leaves, half in shadow and half in soft pastel light, representing isolation and self-reflection.
    “Somewhere In-Between” — A reflection on identity, solitude, and the courage to exist unapologetically as oneself.

    Somewhere In-Between (Neither Alpha, Nor Beta)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Sometimes it feels like
    nobody wants me around.
    That’s okay though—
    I don’t want me around either.

    I’m so off-putting—
    I’m not a people pleaser.
    A lone-wolf,
    with no wolfly features.

    I write too much.
    I don’t say enough.
    Too observant
    for my own good.

    Everybody wants an alpha male—
    Not some beta boy, beta fish,
    Watch him get pissed.
    Headbutting his own reflection.

    Me?
    I carry myself with class.
    Not an alpha, not a beta,
    Somewhere in-between.

    I wrote this—
    And I don’t know
    what it means.

    I write too much.
    I don’t say enough.
    Too observant
    for my own good.

    Like, everyone wants to lock-in.
    Stuck in the binary—
    But me? I’m a non-binary fairy,
    Queer as fuck, like the ones I don’t give.

    And it feels like
    nobody wants me around.
    That’s okay though—
    I understand.

    I’m too confusing.
    Too complex.
    I recognize a pattern,
    I know what comes next.

    Everybody leaves,
    like it’s autumn.
    Gaining distance
    from the trees.

    I write too much.
    I don’t say enough.
    Way too observant
    for my own good.

    If you have made it this far and would like to check out more of my work, you can find it [here] in The Library of Ashes.

  • 🌹 Shadow of Roses — A Neo-Gothic Confessional Poem

    Rowan Evans

    There are nights when the weight inside your chest feels heavier than anything you could ever lift. Nights when shadows don’t just haunt you — they grow roots in your ribs, bloom thorns behind your sternum, and whisper truths you can’t tell anyone else.

    This poem came from one of those nights.

    It is not meant to be pretty. It is meant to be honest.
    It is my offering, raw and unvarnished — an invitation to sit with the ache instead of trying to silence it.

    Black rose blooming out of a broken heart, with vines of thorns. "Shadow of Roses" by Rowan Evans.
    I’m okay. It’s not like I want to die, right?

    🖤 Shadow of Roses
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I lift it—
    until my spine bends and breaks—
    I miss it—
    when problems weren’t so heavy,
    when life didn’t seem so unfair.
    When I didn’t have a care in the world, but that—
    that didn’t last long. Shadows crept in,
    made a home inside my mind.
    Inside my heart, they planted a garden:
    a shadow of roses, all thorns.
    I lost my halo at thirteen,
    traded it for devil horns.

    I’m okay. It’s not like I want to die, right?
    I say with a smile—
    But I’m not okay, because I don’t know how to live.
    I just hope I know how to die right.

    I don’t want to fuck it up—
    end up alive but fucked up.
    I don’t want my family to see me like that;
    hell, I don’t want them to see me like this—
    where pain craves a blade to the wrist,
    and every breath becomes a wish for an end.
    A prayer—not for saving,
    but for release from despair.
    Because I’m a solo set;
    there isn’t another in this pair.

    Do you know how lonely it is
    to be a one of one?
    To know there’s no missing piece—
    it’s just me, always me, all alone.
    I mean, I’m not alone, but God, it feels alone.
    And I don’t want to be a burden,
    so I only cry when I’m alone.

    Tears spill from my eyes,
    like ink from my pen—
    both used to write confessions:
    the ones I dare to say aloud,
    and the ones I bury under metaphor.
    I can’t help but shape them—
    to make them palatable,
    to dull the blade,
    to keep them from being too raw, too “in your face.”

    It’s about time I gave up.
    It’s about time I stopped giving a fuck.

    Pick your head up, you can’t quit—
    that’s what they say,
    but they don’t know what it feels like.
    They can’t grasp what’s in my mind:
    to take a breath but feel like you’re not breathing,
    to be alive but not really living,
    stuck in your skull—
    life playing on a loop, like reruns
    of something you never liked to begin with.

    ✍️ Author’s Note

    “Shadow of Roses” is a confession born of exhaustion.
    It’s not about asking for help or pity — it’s about laying the truth bare and daring to see beauty in the darkness that blooms inside us.

    My poetry often walks the fault line between sacred and profane, between confession and creation.
    This is my way of surviving: turning despair into something that lives outside of me, even if it’s thorned, even if it bleeds.

    Thank you for reading. If these words resonate, know that you, too, are not as alone as you feel.

    – Rowan Evans

    🌙 Closing Reflection

    In Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism, we do not romanticize suffering — but we do witness it.
    We name the shadows, we trace the petals and the thorns, and we let the words stand as testament that even our darkest thoughts can be transformed into something that breathes.

    If this poem spoke to you, share it, save it, or let it echo in your own quiet hours.
    And remember: every confession written is an act of rebellion against silence.

    🕯️ If you’re struggling, please read this:

    You matter. Your pain is real. Your story is not over.
    Here are some resources—because your flame is worth protecting:

    🇺🇲 United States

    988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Call or text 988
    https://988lifeline.org
    Free, 24/7 support for emotional distress and mental health crises.

    Crisis Text Line – Text HOME to 741741
    https://www.crisistextline.org

    —

    🇬🇧 United Kingdom

    Samaritans – Call 116 123 (free, 24/7)
    https://www.samaritans.org

    —

    🇦🇺 Australia

    Lifeline Australia – Call 13 11 14
    https://www.lifeline.org.au

    Kids Helpline (ages 5–25) – Call 1800 55 1800
    https://www.kidshelpline.com.au

    —

    🇨🇦 Canada

    Talk Suicide Canada – Call 1-833-456-4566 or text 45645
    https://talksuicide.ca

    —

    🇵🇭 Philippines

    Hopeline Philippines
    Call: 0917 558 4673, (02) 8804 4673, or 2919 (toll-free for Globe & TM)
    https://www.hopelineph.com

    —

    🌍 Global

    Befrienders Worldwide – Emotional support in 30+ countries
    https://www.befrienders.org

    Suicide Prevention Wiki (International Hotline Directory)
    https://suicidestop.com/call_a_hotline.html