Give me something to work with, and I’ll turn it into a line. A joke. A rhyme. A little trouble.
That’s the game.
— Rowan Evans
Give me something to work with. I’ll give you a poem.
Give Me (I’ll Give) Poetry by Rowan Evans
Give me a beat,
I’ll give you a bar.
Give me a graveyard,
I’ll give you a ghost.
Give me a lyric,
I’ll give you a joke.
Give me a drink,
I’ll give you a toast.
You don’t have to say it—
I know, I write better than most.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Nobody² (No Body)] A minimalist poem playing with the double meaning of “nobody”—exploring loneliness, isolation, absence, and the feeling of becoming a ghost within your own life.
[Rose & Ruin] Two minimalist poems exploring the opposing forces within creativity: the thoughts we cultivate into something beautiful and the darker thoughts we transform before they have a chance to decay.
There are some places that become more than places.
An ocean can be a physical distance, a horizon, a body of water stretching farther than the eye can follow. But sometimes it becomes something else entirely—a canvas, a metaphor, a meeting place between two people who happen to be standing on opposite sides of the world.
Let Me Be Pacific began with a simple invitation: let me show you the ocean the way I see it.
From there, the words wandered where they wanted to go.
Purple skies. Silver moons. Dark water. Rhymes. Trees. Wordplay.
And eventually, the Pacific became more than scenery.
It became the space between here and there—and the reminder that something can cross an enormous distance without ever needing to disappear.
So, for a moment, come sit beside me on the shoreline.
Let me paint you a picture.
— Rowan Evans
The Pacific may separate two shores, but poetry has never been particularly good at respecting distance.
Let Me Be Pacific Poetry by Rowan Evans
Here let me take my words
and paint a picture for you—
the sky in shades of purple and blue,
lit by the silver moon—
it lingers over the bay,
that’s where it stays—
watching over the tide,
and I sit on the shoreline—
watching the ocean’s waves.
Which ocean? Okay,
here let me try and spell it out,
let me be Pacific—
it’s off the California coast,
it touches the Philippine Sea,
sits between Japan and Me.
Now back to the imagery—
there was me, next to a happy little tree,
and the moon was shimmering,
trembling across dark water—
back on the shoreline,
having written more lines,
not less, but more rhymes.
So let me stay Pacific—
specific in the way I see the sea,
how every wave feels like a message
sent across the world to me.
I sit, I rhyme, I watch the tide—
the ocean’s big, but so’s my mind.
And if you ask me why I write
beside this ocean every night—
it’s because the tide keeps teaching me
how distance isn’t always far,
how even the Pacific can carry a heart
from California to wherever you are.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[My Nightmare] A poem about the nightmare of loving someone across distance, seeing the world from different perspectives, and holding onto the hope that the cracks can still be repaired—and that someday two separate shores might become one.
[Rose & Ruin] Two minimalist poems exploring the opposing forces within creativity: the thoughts we cultivate into something beautiful and the darker thoughts we transform before they have a chance to decay.
[Across the Page-cific] A playful, autobiographical journey through the strange places poetry can take me—from sandwich heartbreak and pasta diss poems to gothic monsters, mythology, ravens, ghosts, and storms across the page. Beneath the absurdity is something deeply personal: the realization that writing gave me a way to rebuild myself, piece by piece.
Sometimes I sit down with a pen and decide I’m going to behave.
That usually lasts about three lines.
Behind These Bars (Idol Chatter) is one of those pieces where the writing gets a little cocky, the jokes start stacking up, and the references begin sneaking through the cracks. It’s playful, competitive, and intentionally ridiculous in places.
So consider this a little verbal sparring session.
No hard feelings.
Probably.
— Rowan Evans
The meet-and-greet is over. The pen has entered the battle.
Behind These Bars (Idol Chatter) Poetry by Rowan Evans
Oh, look at you— look what you can do with a pen—it’s cute, but you can’t win— yet you think you can?
Damn, man— what was your plan? How were you going to get the best of me?
Get in line— get ready for the meet and greet, I’ll sign your autograph, cause I—
I know I’m your Idol, American, shape the ink like clay, ’til it’s achin’— I’m Stronger now, and not Because Of You, so listen quick, remember bitch, you’ll want to remember where you were at during A Moment Like This—
that was three straight references to Clarkson, Kelly— sit down, talk show, telly. It’s just jokes bitch, I can get silly— that’s just how the mind Behind These Hazel Eyes works—
jerks.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Conductor] A dark, intimate poem about the strange power words can have over the reader—where rhythm, rhyme, and line breaks become instruments capable of reaching beyond the page.
[Kaio-ken/Zenkai] Two Dragon Ball-inspired battle poems about creative power, survival, and coming back stronger. Kaio-ken with a Pen brings the attack, while Zenkai (Stronger Now) delivers the aftermath: push me to the edge, and I’ll return stronger than before.
[Don’t Push Me] A playful battle-poetry piece about turning insults into punchlines, standing your ground, and refusing to be intimidated. Don’t Push Me mixes swagger, humor, rhyme, and Rowan Evans’ signature self-aware interruptions.
[B.S.T.F.U.] A playful battle-poetry exercise packed with insults, internal rhymes, punchlines, wordplay, and literary swagger. B.S.T.F.U. is Rowan Evans flexing the verbal muscles—not calling out anyone in particular.
There isn’t a real target hiding behind this poem, no specific person I’m trying to call out, and no secret literary feud happening behind the scenes. I wrote this because sometimes I like to take the battle-poet side of my voice out for a walk and see what it can do.
This piece is deliberately over-the-top. It’s swagger, insults, wordplay, internal rhyme, punchlines, and a little bit of absurdity thrown into the blender. The goal wasn’t to make a serious accusation—it was to practice the mechanics of verbal combat while having fun with the language.
And honestly, that’s part of why I love writing: sometimes I want to write something vulnerable, sometimes I want to build mythology, sometimes I want to make conspiracy theories about fish, and sometimes I just want to look at the imaginary competition and say:
Where are you on the ladder?
Below me.
It’s not that serious.
But the pen game?
That part is serious.
— Rowan Evans
No target. No feud. Just a poet flexing the pen and climbing the imaginary ladder.
B.S.T.F.U. Poetry by Rowan Evans
Bitch, shut the fuck up—
what’chu talkin’ about?
Don’t think I haven’t heard—
how you’re runnin’ your mouth.
You thought ’cause I don’t talk a lot,
I was open season, you should be scared—
let me give you a reason, I’m a big dog—
all bite, no bark and a license to write still.
I write with precision, I write kills—
you’re not a writer,
you’re the one who steals—
plagiarizing those with skill.
It’s stolen lines
and stolen rhymes—
the only thing keeping you
holding on to borrowed time—
it’s not yours—
it’s whoever writes for you.
It’s me and it’s them—
it’s the wielders of the pen.
Those with skill,
with lines that kill
and lines that heal—
we know—
you don’t write, bitch—
be so for real.
You don’t know what a metaphor is—
and a stanza?
You hear that and you’re like—
isn’t his first name Tony?
Bitch, you’re a phony…
if you were
to try and write—
baloney.
All that to ask—
when it comes
to writing—
where are you
on the ladder?
Below me.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Across the Page-cific] A playful, autobiographical journey through the strange places poetry can take me—from sandwich heartbreak and pasta diss poems to gothic monsters, mythology, ravens, ghosts, and storms across the page. Beneath the absurdity is something deeply personal: the realization that writing gave me a way to rebuild myself, piece by piece.
Between Sun & Shore was written in February of last year, during a season where I was learning what it felt like to be seen gently instead of weathered. It came from a place of quiet awe—of realizing that sometimes love doesn’t arrive like a storm, but like warmth. Like light finding its way through the cracks you thought would always stay broken.
This poem is about that in-between space: where grief softens, where healing begins, where you are no longer only the tide or the storm—but something new, something held. It’s about the moment you realize that someone hasn’t come to save you… they’ve come to grow beside you.
Where storms soften and light learns your name.
Between Sun & Shore Poetry by Rowan Evans
I once drifted like a wayward tide, Lost in the waves, nowhere to hide. Storms had carved their name in me, Each scar a tale, each wound a sea.
Then you arrived—a golden ray, Like sunrise spilling into the bay.
Your voice, a hymn the wind would weave, Soft as the hum of the monsoon’s reprieve. You traced my ruins, stone by stone, And turned them into sacred homes.
Now every ripple speaks your name, Each whispered breeze, each dancing flame.
Like sampaga’s quiet grace, You bloom where sorrow left its trace. Between Sun and Shore, love grew— A bridge of light, leading to you.
I grew up with curiosity tucked into my pockets and verses curled beneath my tongue. Emily Dickinson was a whisper in the corners of my childhood, a friend I never met but whose words became a world I could inhabit. This poem is my conversation with her—not as a student or disciple, but as a daughter of her imagination. I step lightly into her quiet rebellion, tracing the wildness in the spaces between her lines, and celebrate the wonder she taught me to carry everywhere.
Roo the Poet channels Emily Dickinson’s quiet rebellion—where whimsy meets power and poetry becomes sacred magic.
Invocation
Emily, I call you forth from the hush of your pages— to twirl with me among dandelion threads, to sparkle in the dust motes of moonlight, to teach me the magic hidden in whispered words and the spellcraft of curiosity. Come, let us play in the corners of imagination, where every pause is a secret, every breath a tiny universe.
The Daughter of Dickinson Poetry by Roo the Poet ☽
I was born with wonder in my pockets, curiosity curled beneath my tongue— a girl with soil-stained knees and verses stitched in dandelion thread.
Emily, you taught me to whisper like the wind, to rhyme with ghosts, to find galaxies in the hush between heartbeats.
Where others saw silence, you saw sacredness. Where others sought heaven, you built it in the corner of a room with nothing but paper and breath.
I carry your quiet rebellion— your needlepoint of metaphors, your hymns in lowercase, your refusal to explain what the soul already understands.
They say I’m soft— as if softness isn’t a spell. As if whimsy isn’t a weapon for those too clever to be caught.
Let them laugh. Let them call me girl or child or fragile. They don’t see the wildfire tucked behind my daydreams, the spells scribbled in sidewalk chalk, the dragons I’ve tamed with lullabies.
I don’t need a crown of thorns. I wear flower crowns and spiderwebs, and I rule from the quiet places— behind the bookshelf, inside the poem, beneath the bed where dreams go when they’re too loud for daylight.
You showed me how to write the world slant, how to speak with lightning behind my teeth. I am your echo in soft rebellion, your candlelit cathedral of small, sacred things.
So call me daughter, call me myth in the making— but do not mistake my hush for absence. I am here. Wide-eyed. Wand in hand. Heart open like a story yet to be told.
Benediction
May the softest words bloom like wildflowers in your heart. May curiosity be your compass and wonder your crown. May you find galaxies in small corners, and speak with lightning behind your teeth. Go forth with wand in hand, ink on your fingertips, and a heart open to all the stories yet to be told. May you be brave, be small, be loud, be soft— and may the quiet magic of Emily’s whispers always walk beside you.
The Poetic Lineage
The Daughter of Plath | Rowan Evans In The Daughter of Plath, Rowan Evans writes as the heir to a ghost—cradling grief not her own, baptized in bell jars, and building a cathedral from ash. This is a confession, a prayer, and a refusal to let the ache fall silent.
Slim & Shady II is a playful experiment—a lyrical playground where wordplay, rhythm, and mischief collide. While much of my work dwells in the sacred darkness of Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism, this piece leans into cadence, puns, and clever twists inspired by the craft and energy of artists like Eminem and Ez Mil.
Here, the voice is extroverted, daring, and mischievous—turning language itself into both playground and weapon. Each line is a deliberate play of shadow and light, a balance of humor and darkness, echoing the parts of me that delight in the chaos, the riddles, and the audacious joy of words.
Shadows & Laughter nods to the duality I carry within my work: the intimate intensity of emotion, and the exuberant, witty, irreverent self that refuses to be confined. This poem is my invitation to step inside the game, to follow the twists of rhyme, and to let mischief, laughter, and the thrill of language guide you.
Channeling chaos, rhythm, and mischief—Slim & Shady II: Shadows & Laughter by Rowan Evans.
I’m slim, baby, got room to grow—
If you stick in the shadows, the light I’ll show.
Bars in my pocket, but my heart on display—
I’ll twist your mind like a cipher, then slip away.
I lace the lines with mischief, twist the words like springs,
Jokes in the margins, hidden meanings in the rings.
Microphone magician, syllables combust,
Every pun a spark, every rhyme a must.
Check the cadence—flip it, spin it, ride the beat,
Tongue-tied tumbles, clever hooks on repeat.
I sneak the truth in riddles, humor in disguise,
Every verse a mirror, reflecting sharp surprise.
Snap your brain with wordplay, tickle ears with wit,
Layers stacked like Lego, every piece legit.
I rhyme for chaos, for laughter, for the thrill,
Slim & Shady in spirit—but the voice is all skill.
I dodge clichés like dodging bullets in a flick,
Punchlines loaded, witty twists, my linguistic shtick.
Bars drip cleverness, inked with flair and jest,
Every line a labyrinth, every rhyme a test.
I shuffle words like cards, stack metaphors high,
Double meanings lurking, waiting sly in the sky.
Heartbeat syncopates with syllables in flight,
Laughter meets the darkness in the folds of night.
Eminem taught the cadence, Ez Mil the bite,
I channel both, a fusion of shadow and light.
Playful with the venom, mischievous and raw,
Every verse a puzzle, every hook a claw.
License to pun, with a semicolon in my hand,
Crossword battles brewing, wits at my command.
I spit paradox, irony, and clever jest,
Heart on my sleeve, mischief in my chest.
I juggle words like daggers, wit my only weapon,
Every rhyme a spark, every verse a confession.
Slim in spirit, shady in grin,
Twisting the world with the chaos within.
I rhyme, I jest, I twist, I tease—
Slim & Shady, now bow to me, please.
Bars in the heart, beats in the mind,
Every line a hook, every hook a sign.
I slip through the syllables, vanish in the pun,
Shadow and laughter—my mischief is done.
She is not a nightmare in the terror sense— she is the ache beneath the ache, the beauty in breaking, the truth that shreds the soft mask we wear.
This poem is a reckoning. An offering to the fierce shadow lovers inside us— those who show us what it means to bleed light and darkness all at once.
If you find her waiting in your own shadows, do not run. Bend toward the fire. Let her break you open.
“A flame in the dark, a shadow that sings—she is the girl of my nightmares, the beautiful ache I cannot escape.”
✵ Invocation ✵
I summon the girl of my nightmares— not to haunt, but to unravel me, to burn the lies I hide behind, to scorch the edges of my fragile skin. She is the dark hymn I pray in silence, the wildfire that doesn’t ask for mercy, only to be seen— naked, unraveled, unrepentant.
The Girl of My Nightmares Poetry by Rowan Evans
She walks into my dreams like dusk spilling over a wounded horizon— soft at the edges, but carrying the scent of rain that only comes before a storm.
She is the girl of my nightmares— the fire I cannot put out, the shadow I bleed into.
Her voice is velvet cut on glass, slow as a secret you ache to hear again, even if it ruins you. Each syllable slips into my bloodstream, a lullaby dressed as a blade.
She is the girl of my nightmares— the fire I cannot put out, the shadow I bleed into.
She is not the kind of beautiful you hold in daylight— she is candlelight swaying in a room where the shadows know your name. And when her gaze finds me, the ghosts in my bones go quiet.
She is the girl of my nightmares— the fire I cannot put out, the shadow I bleed into.
She does not reach for me in kindness— she reaches in truth, fingers brushing the cracks I hide, not to fix them, but to make them holy. She calls me out like lightning calls the tree, splitting me open, then holding the wound in the privacy of her hands.
She is the girl of my nightmares— the fire I cannot put out, the shadow I bleed into.
When I wake, she lingers— storm-light in my veins, her absence pressing against my skin like the shape of a bruise. I move through the day with the taste of her name still heavy on my tongue, half-prayer, half-curse.
She is the girl of my nightmares— the fire I cannot put out, the shadow I bleed into.
She is not a dream I escape from. She is the cathedral in my sleep, where I kneel in the dark and beg for the mercy of never being saved.
✵ Benediction ✵
May the girl of your nightmares burn slow— a velvet wound you trace with trembling hands, a wild flame that sears and sings your name. And when she fades, may you carry her fire— not as pain, but as the raw, raw proof that you lived— that you burned— that you were never afraid to be undone.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 