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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: loneliness poetry

  • Poet & Little Dude | A Surreal Sci-Fi Poetry Story About Loneliness, Belonging & Home by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes a poem arrives dressed like science fiction and refuses to stay in its genre.

    Poet & Little Dude began with the kind of ridiculous premise that feels perfectly reasonable at the time: an alien lands in an ordinary American city, everyone panics, and the poet is mostly annoyed by how long the spaceship ramp takes to come down. From there, Little Dude wandered into the story with jokes, questions, a questionable understanding of human customs, and absolutely no respect for the study guide.

    But beneath the absurdity, something quieter started taking shape.

    This is a story about being seen by someone who doesn’t need the entire explanation first. About two homes, two dusks, two dawns—and the strange ache of knowing that the place you’re standing in isn’t necessarily the place that feels like home.

    So yes, there are aliens, government agents, hotdogs, Admiral Ackbar, an extended-warranty joke, and a very important distinction between a rabbit hole and a bunny void.

    But somewhere underneath all that nonsense is Little Dude asking the poet the question that matters:

    Do you want to go home?

    — Rowan Evans

    A poet with a notebook stands beside a small gray alien in a city as a strange spacecraft and frightened crowd surround them beneath a surreal twilight sky.
    Sometimes the strangest visitor is the one who finally asks where you want to call home.

    Poet & Little Dude
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    A silent hum in the sky above,
    a non-descript American city.

    The kind of hum
    that settles in your bones
    before your mind catches up,
    the kind that says
    pay attention 
    without making a sound.

    Everyone looked up.
    I looked down at my notes.
    I’d seen enough movies to know
    this was either the beginning
    or the end.

    Probably both.

    People screamed.
    Cars stopped.
    Someone dropped a hotdog.

    And me?

    I sighed, closed my notebook,
    and muttered,
    “Well… guess it’s my turn again.”

    I stopped at the edge of the crowd
    as the craft touched down.

    A low buzzing cut through the air,
    and a ramp began to lower.

    Slowly.

    Excruciatingly slow.

    I checked my watch.
    I tapped my foot.
    I wrote four stanzas,
    two sonnets—

    and finished season one
    of Breaking Bad…

    and the ramp was still lowering.

    Hit the power button
    on my phone and locked it.

    Slipped it back in my pocket—
    where my hands stayed.

    A silent thud as the ramp
    FINALLY—
    hit the ground.
    The hollow echo
    of footsteps rang out.

    A shadow stretched long—
    cascading down the ramp
    until it touched the dirt.

    The crowd began to murmur
    before a voice rang out—
    “Take me to your leader!”

    The crowd went silent.
    Only the footsteps echoing
    could be heard—
    nobody could see a thing
    at first—

    “No, I’m just kidding.
    I’ve always want to say that.”
    The tiny grey alien
    stopped at the bottom of the ramp,
    slowly looking up—

    Its large black eyes
    landing on mine.

    “Sup?” I said
    with a slight nod
    of my head.

    Its eyes closed for a moment—

    “I’ve been trying to reach you
    about your cars extended warranty.”
    The alien’s mouth thins to a line
    as it tried to contain the giggles.

    Pinching the bridge
    of my nose—
    I sighed.

    “You didn’t follow
    the study guide—”
    I started,
    before little dude
    cut me off.

    “I went down
    the bunny void.”

    “Rabbit hole—”
    I corrected.

    “What?”
    they asked confused.

    I slowly get down
    on one knee,
    just like I had before—

    “It’s a rabbit hole,
    when you follow
    a thread through
    seemingly unrelated topics.”

    Little dude nodded.
    “I think I got it.
    But what about you,
    did you study the guide
    I gave too?”

    I cleared my throat,
    tried to hide the choke.
    Should I lie—
    or hide it with a joke?

    Nope.

    “I did not.”
    I said, looking away.

    Shaking their head,
    little dude laughs.
    “It’s okay, poet.
    You should read it though,
    you’ll love it, I know it.”

    Stepping closer.
    Hand on mine.

    “You’ll learn of
    green skies and purple lakes,
    twin suns and sister moons—

    we get six hours of light,
    six hours of night. Twice.”

    “Twin suns and sister moons?”
    I asked. “I can relate to that.
    That’s how my life has been,
    living under two suns—
    they’re really one.
    It’s two days in different places.”

    Little dude tilted their head,
    then they said:

    “No.”

    A pause.

    “Not two suns.
    It’s two homes.
    Two dusks, two dawns—
    one feels right,
    the other wrong.”

    I turned my head,
    eyes glassy, tears steaming,
    as I opened my mouth
    to speak.

    But the words evaded me.
    Little dude noticed quick.

    “You’re leaking.”
    They said with concern.

    “It’s human emotion,
    you’ll learn.”
    I said with a quivering lip,
    trying to hold it all in.

    Our moment is interrupted
    by a scream
    from the forgotten crowd.

    “Whoa,”
    little dude flinches
    in surprise.
    “Have they been here
    this whole time?”

    Looking around—
    I saw the faces in the crowd.
    Some were scared, terrified—
    others confused and paranoid.

    “It’s a trap!”
    a voice cut through
    the thick silence.

    I sighed,
    not surprised—
    “calm down,
    Admiral Ackbar.”

    The crowd lets out
    a collective scream—
    someone throws a shoe.
    It barely misses my head.

    “What the hell?!
    Who threw that?”
    I yell.

    “Was it you—”
    little dude pauses dramatically,
    their eyes focusing.
    “Admiral?”

    Admiral Ackbar shakes his head.
    “N-no.” he stammers,
    as his heart hammers in his chest.

    “The government…” the crowd began,
    the murmurs spread quick.
    “we’ve got to call the government.
    They’ll handle this—
    they’ll know what to do.”

    Little Dude and I blink.

    “Since when?”
    I asked, confused.

    “Okay, okay—
    wait, let me introduce you.
    They’re not scary.
    They can show you.”
    I say, addressing the crowd.

    The crowd begins to quiet down,
    their murmurs becoming a softer sound.

    “This…”
    I gesture to the little dude beside me.
    “This is Little Dude.
    They’re not… from around here.”

    “That’s one way to put it.”
    Little dude adds.
    “I’m from a little place called…
    another planet.”
    They make a vague gesture
    with their hands.

    “Just another planet?”
    a voice from the crowd asks,
    shaking with fear.
    “No… no name?”

    “Name’s pending.
    It’s actually been pending
    for a long time…
    a really long time.
    But that’s the government,
    right?” Little dude responds with a smile.
    “They’re slow.”

    “Why are you naked?”
    another question from the crowd.

    “Naked?”
    Little dude tilts their head.
    “Do you mean—
    why am I
    not wearing a second skin,
    like you?”

    The crowd recoiled
    like Little Dude had just confessed
    to a federal crime.

    “Second skin?”
    someone whispered, horrified.

    Little Dude nodded earnestly.

    “Yes.
    The fabric layer you all wear
    to hide your emotional temperature.”

    I blinked.

    “That’s… not why we wear clothes.”

    Little Dude tilted their head,
    eyes wide.

    “Then why do you wear them?”

    A hundred humans froze,
    suddenly realizing
    they did not have a unified answer.

    “We just like them.” I said,
    my voice lacking confidence.

    Little dude shakes their head,
    “not important.” they said,
    “I’m not here for that,”
    they gesture to the crowd.
    “I’m not here for the them.”

    Their big eyes, land on mine—
    “I’m here for you.”

    Little Dude’s words hung in the air,
    heavy enough to silence a hundred humans,
    light enough to lift something in my chest.

    The crowd didn’t know what to do with it.
    A few gasped.
    Someone dropped another hotdog.

    (Why were there so many hotdogs?)

    A woman near the front whispered,
    “Why him?”
    like I was a questionable menu item.

    Little Dude squeezed my hand,
    their skin warm—
    warmer than I expected.

    “Because you listened,”
    they said softly.
    “You always listen.”

    I opened my mouth to respond—
    to say something clever,
    something deflective,
    something safe—

    but the sky split open
    with the sound of sirens.

    Government vans rolled in,
    black and boxy,
    like someone ordered
    “paranoia” on Amazon
    and selected same‑day delivery.

    Agents poured out,
    all sunglasses and shouting,
    pointing weapons that hummed
    with the kind of energy
    that makes your bones nervous.

    Little Dude blinked at them.

    “Are these your leaders?”

    I snorted.
    “God, no.”

    The nearest agent yelled,
    “Step away from the entity!”

    Little Dude tilted their head.
    “Entity?”
    They looked at me.
    “Is that a compliment?”

    “Not really,” I whispered.

    The agent repeated the command,
    louder this time,
    as if volume could fix confusion.

    Little Dude stepped closer to me,
    their voice steady.

    “I’m not here to harm.
    I’m not here to conquer.
    I’m not here to be studied.”

    Their eyes locked on mine.

    “I’m here because you’re lonely.”

    My breath caught.

    The crowd fell silent again,
    but this time for a different reason.

    Little Dude continued,
    voice soft enough
    to feel like a hand on my cheek.

    “You look at the sky
    like it’s a door.
    You write worlds
    you wish you could walk into.
    You build cathedrals
    for people who never stayed.”

    They squeezed my hand.

    “I came to stay.”

    The agents shouted again,
    but their voices felt far away—
    like background noise
    in a movie I’d already seen.

    Little Dude leaned in,
    their forehead touching mine.

    “Poet,” they whispered,
    “do you want to go home?”

    I swallowed hard.

    “Which one?”

    Little Dude smiled,
    eyes glowing faintly.

    “The one you haven’t found yet.”

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Beings from Beyond (Remix)]
    A 2026 remix of a poem first written in 2024, Beings from Beyond (Remix) returns to the mystery of unexplained lights, extraterrestrial possibilities, and humanity’s hunger for answers. The wonder remains—but the poet’s voice has become more focused on the search for truth itself.

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

  • Undead Symphony (Remix) — A Poem About Apathy, Empathy & Emotional Isolation

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems don’t need to be abandoned when we outgrow the person who originally wrote them.

    Sometimes they need to be revisited.

    Undead Symphony (Remix) returns to a poem I originally wrote on June 13, 2024. The original was written from a place I understood intimately: feeling perpetually misplaced, overlooked, and emotionally exhausted while still carrying an enormous capacity for empathy underneath the numbness.

    The title came from that contradiction.

    An undead thing is neither fully alive nor truly dead. A symphony, meanwhile, is full of movement, emotion, tension, and sound. Put those ideas together and you get something that feels very close to the emotional state I was trying to describe: a person who can feel deeply while simultaneously becoming distant from the world around them.

    That contradiction is still here in 2026.

    What changed is the way I approach it.

    The remix gives the poem more room to breathe. I broke apart lines that had previously been compressed together, allowing certain thoughts to linger rather than rushing past them. I also sharpened some of the imagery and cadence, particularly around the relationship between solitude, apathy, and empathy.

    The original poem said what I was feeling.

    The remix feels more like I understand why I was saying it.

    And that distinction matters.

    I have spent a lot of time in my writing exploring darkness—not because darkness is all I have, but because I have always been fascinated by the strange things that can survive inside it. Undead Symphony is one of those pieces.

    Apathy and empathy shouldn’t fit together.

    Yet somehow, they do.

    One protects the heart by making the world feel distant.

    The other keeps reaching toward it anyway.

    That tension is the symphony.

    The speaker may feel undead, but the music never actually stops.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure sits beneath a moonlit window as ghostly music and shadows surround a small warm light.
    Somewhere between apathy and empathy, something inside me keeps making music.

    Undead Symphony (Remix)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans
    [written on July 23, 2026]

    It was always the wrong place,
    wrong time—

    I was always second best,
    never first place—

    Never the one to win the race,
    I was always the one they laughed at,
    never with—

    always the one that
    when they were gone—

    never missed.

    So I grew cold and distant
    like far-off summer nights,
    yearned for on cold winter mornings.

    And sometimes—

    it still feels hard to breathe,
    like a shadow in the light,
    fading beneath.

    I never was one for faith,
    I never believed,
    no thoughts and no prayers—

    because why should anybody care?

    In a crowd I felt alone,
    a silent voice,
    an empty phone.

    It’s apathy—
    and I pair it with my empathy.
    An odd dance of light and dark,
    within me.

    It’s beauty in the darkness,
    an undead symphony.

    But still—I dream of a place,
    where I’m more than just a face.
    A spark in the night,
    a fleeting glimpse
    of warmth in the cold,
    and strength in the struggle.

    I remember moments—
    fleeting and rare,
    of laughter shared,
    of someone who cared.

    Brief as they were,
    they lit up my sky,

    A reminder that even shadows can try.

    Yet—
    I return to the solitude I know,
    where apathy is my only show.

    But my empathy,
    a hidden grace—

    whispers of a longing for a different place.

    It’s a contradiction,
    a twisted art—
    to feel so much,
    with a guarded heart.

    An undead symphony,
    a haunting tune—

    a dance of shadows beneath the moon.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Fallen Angel’s Reckoning (Remix)]
    Fallen Angel’s Reckoning (Remix) revisits a 2024 poem about heartbreak, broken promises, and falling from an imagined heaven, transforming its original ending into a darker meditation on resilience, self-reclamation, and learning to fly with broken wings.

    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]

  • No Prince for This Sleep – A Poem About Depression, Numbness, and Self-Awakening

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a kind of numbness that doesn’t look dramatic from the outside. You’re awake, you respond, you move through the world — but something in you isn’t fully present. It’s not sleep, but it isn’t living either.

    This piece plays with the familiar idea that someone else can “wake” you. Fairy tales love that narrative. Real life doesn’t always follow it.

    Some states don’t break with a kiss.
    Some disconnection doesn’t lift just because someone cares.

    That doesn’t make it less real.
    It just means the way back has to start from the inside.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person lying awake in a dim room symbolizing emotional numbness and disconnection.
    Some states don’t break with a kiss—you have to find your own way back.

    No Prince for This Sleep
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m conscious—
    but not really here,
    lost in my mind,

    waiting for you
    to find me.

    It’s like I sleep
    even as I speak—
    but I’m not beautiful…

    So I’m
    sleeping ugly,

    waiting for somebody
    to come and love me—

    to wake me
    from this
    comatose apathy.

    Journey into the Hexverse!

    [Low Hum]
    Depression isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a quiet presence—a low hum beneath everything. This poem explores that silence, and the small moments that help break through it.

    [Right Behind My Eyes]
    A raw and introspective poem exploring dissociation, emotional distance, and the grounding power of love. Right Behind My Eyes captures the feeling of watching your life from afar–and what keeps you from disappearing completely.

    [Not Crisis, Just Constant]
    Not all struggles are loud. Some live in the background—a constant presence you learn to carry. This poem explores anxiety, isolation, and the quiet tension between wanting connection and fearing it.

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