Introduction
By Roo the Poet

🌸 (Roo bouncing around, smiling.)

Heeey, you’re heeere!
Haha—yes, yes, YES… you found it.

This is messy.
This is wild.
This is word soup with fangs and sparkles.

🟠 Rowan’s giggling.
🔴 B.D.’s growling.
🟣 Hex is lurking.

And me?
I’m jumping up and down, waving my little knife, spilling ink everywhere,
laughing like a sugar‑crazed tornado in a tutu.
Maybe I’m plotting. Maybe I’m just playing.

Read it if you want.
Or don’t.
I don’t care.
But I’ll be watching.
Always watching.

Rite of Ink
Poetry by Rowan Evans

🟠 (Rowan takes center stage.)

You say you write what you really live—
but it reads like fantasy.
I say I write a fantasy—
but it reads like what I really live.

Nobody believes what you’re saying, dawg,
because honestly, your honesty sounds like a fraud.
You say, this is my life though—
and nobody buys what you’re sellin’, bro.

I could write three poems about one conversation,
say I made it all up, and still they see the life in it.
You could write a whole poem about your life,
and readers would still find lies in it.

You could put your wife’s name in every rhyme,
and still nobody believes she exists.
I turn my muse into an archetype,
and nobody questions whether she lives.

Because my words are alive,
and yours? Flat out lies.
I write so well, I don’t even have to try—
you write, and everybody asks… why?

I could hide the woman I love’s name in plain sight…
like Are you even reading this?
I’m schooling you, you flunky,
and still you think you can fuck with me?

I live in my words,
and they live back.
Yours?
Just echoes, gasping for breath.

Let me rewind that back…
I said I could hide her name in plain sight.
Are you even reading this?
I’m schooling you, you flunky,
and still you think you can fuck with me?

You think you’re on the same page?
Don’t make me laugh—I’ll leave you shook.
You’re not even in the same book.
Don’t insult me.
Don’t provoke me.
Don’t test my rage.

I’ll end up sayin’—
B.D. get ’em.

🔴 (B.D. steps from the shadows.)

Bones snap. Blood goes cold.
As the tone shifts, I enter the fold.
My knife hums a pleasant song—
pleasant for me, because you don’t know
what you did wrong.

You choke on smoke and sulfur.
Blood curdles like spoiled milk.
I do it for my own, homegrown culture,
as my words cut through flesh like silk.

Your blood like ink
will spill across the page.
Cold steel my pen,
my words? Rage.

And here comes Hex—
she’s up next.

🟣 (Hex materializes from nowhere.)

Ashes to ashes, blood to blood,
Eye of toad, and witch’s tongue.
Tail of newt—the spell’s begun.
You think you’re safe… so you don’t run.

Safe is an illusion.
When you write? A delusion.
When I write?
A rite.
An earworm.
A brain intrusion.

I’ll twist your thoughts
like silk spun—
this isn’t personal,
I’ll hex you for fun.

So mote it be

Step deeper into the shadows and discover the full breadth of my poetry in The Library of Ashes — an archive of ink-stained devotion, dark petals, and threshold poems that linger long after the last candle flickers. Visit The Library of Ashes →