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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: memory

  • Still Tilting Elsewhere | A Poem About Leaving, Longing, and Becoming

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some people grow up knowing exactly where they belong.
    Others grow up carrying a quiet sense of elsewhere—something felt long before it’s understood.

    This piece traces that feeling as it moved through me over time: the early moments of disconnection, the private planning, the slow patience of a dream that never burned out. It isn’t about leaving a place as much as it is about realizing that orientation matters more than arrival.

    Not all rebellions are loud.
    Some of them are lived quietly, for years, while you learn how to wait without letting the dream die.

    A person standing at dusk, facing a distant horizon with a compass motif in the sky, symbolizing longing and the pull toward somewhere else.
    Some dreams don’t disappear.
    They learn how to wait.

    Still Tilting Elsewhere
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I find myself
    drifting through my thoughts,
    not lost this time.

    I remember fourteen.
    Hi Hi Puffy—
    Ami and Yumi on the screen,
    seeing Tokyo streets,
    thinking “I hate this place.”
    It was the first time
    I felt the disconnect.

    Suddenly,
    I was hyperaware—
    I didn’t belong here.

    I remember fifteen.
    The first time
    I started planning.
    The first time
    I dreamed of jet engines,
    of taking off,
    making escape.

    I remember sixteen.
    Started speaking,
    manifesting—
    wishing it into existence.
    I remember seventeen,
    when my dream,
    became a quiet rebellion.

    And I was
    only becoming
    more aware,
    I didn’t belong here.

    I remember eighteen.
    Applying for a job,
    I knew I wouldn’t get.
    Simply for the chance to split.
    It was more about the “what if’s,”
    what if they saw something—
    what if they took a chance?

    And then—
    found family
    from the Philippines.
    Two girls of thirteen,
    they became like nieces to me.
    They were the spark
    that stoked the ember,
    that would simmer
    just beneath the surface.

    It’s been
    eighteen years
    since then.

    Eighteen years,
    and the ember never cooled.
    It lived in the quiet places—
    behind decisions,
    beneath routines,
    inside every map I drew
    that didn’t include here.

    And the dream didn’t fade.
    It learned patience.
    It learned silence.
    It learned to wait
    without dying.

    Now,
    I feel the shift again—
    the same quiet pull,
    the same soft rebellion,
    older now,
    but no less certain.

    I still carry that fourteen-year-old
    like a compass in my chest.
    I carry that seventeen-year-old
    like a promise I haven’t kept yet.
    I’ve grown,
    but the compass never changed.
    Every version of me
    still tilts toward somewhere…
    else.

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

  • Grounded: A Poem About Dissociation, Memory, and Coming Back to Yourself

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece came from that disorienting in-between space—when your thoughts scatter, your body feels unreal, and you’re not sure how you got there. Sometimes it isn’t logic that brings you back. Sometimes it’s a voice. A laugh. A presence that reminds you who you are.

    A person sitting on a hospital floor under fluorescent lights, surrounded by sterile white walls, with a subtle warm glow suggesting grounding and emotional return.
    Sometimes all it takes is a voice to bring you back.

    Grounded
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Sterile white walls,
    fluorescent bulbs
    light the halls—
    I stumble
    and fall,
    sprawled
    across the floor.

    What was I
    even here for?

    Vision snaps.
    Vision blurs.
    Voices heard.

    I’m not alone.
    It’s me
    my thoughts
    and I—

    Flicker and fade,
    between here
    and anywhere.

    Voices echo.
    Voices linger.

    Touch—
    Soft and grounding,
    it brings me back
    to myself.

    Slowly. Blinking.
    It’s her voice…

    Her voice echoes,
    and reverberates.
    A giggle. A laugh.

    And I’m back.

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

  • The Thread That Led Me Home | A Poem About Memory, Fog, and Finding Your Way Back

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’d been stuck in my head for days—looping memories, fogged thoughts, the usual spiral.

    Then I had a dream.

    In it, someone I care deeply about cut through the noise in the bluntest, most effective way possible. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t poetic. But it worked.

    This poem came from that moment—the realization that sometimes the way forward isn’t overthinking, but following the one thread that still feels steady.

    Even through the fog.

    A glowing thread leads through foggy woods toward a softly lit clearing at night, symbolizing guidance and emotional connection.
    Sometimes the way out of your head is just one honest thread—and the courage to follow it.

    The Thread That Led Me Home
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    The fog rolls over hills,
    and a chill clings
    to my mind.
    Memories linger
    in flickering fragments,
    clinging static—
    the kind that hums
    behind the eyes,
    buzzing with moments
    I thought I buried
    but never really left.

    They circle back—
    whispers caught
    between stations,
    half-formed voices
    I almost recognize
    but can’t quiet name.
    Threads of memory
    tangled in the mist,
    pulling me back
    to places
    I never meant to revisit.

    I stumble through playgrounds,
    bumping off walls
    as I march down the hall.
    A single thread,
    I’ve begun to follow—
    It leads through memory,
    after memory.
    Twisting and turning,
    it knots—
    and I pause,
    fingers trembling
    over the tangle,
    wondering what unravels
    if I pull too hard.

    I run fingers
    over threads.
    Gripping soft,
    pulling slow—
    I watch
    as the string
    slips free—
    and it hums,
    like it’s guiding me.

    So I follow.

    Step after step,
    one foot
    in front
    of the other.
    I step and stumble
    through fog,
    thick as my thoughts.
    And when
    I feel lost,
    my fingers tighten
    grabbing the string
    like a lifeline.
    It’s the only guide
    through my mind.

    I stumble through,
    snapping twigs
    and branches.
    The rustle of
    rotting leaves
    under feet,
    until I see it.
    A light,
    a clearing.
    And when I reach it,
    when I find
    the strings conclusion—
    what do I see?

    You.
    A smile.
    Home.

    Closing Note

    Yesterday’s poem was about the weight of memory. This one is about the moment something — or someone — breaks through that weight. Not to fix it, not to erase it, but to remind me that I don’t have to walk through the fog alone.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Memory Lane Has No Exit]
    With my birthday approaching, I found myself trapped inside my mind—wandering memory lane, revisiting love, loss, and the moments that built me. This poem is a reflection on betrayal, survival, and the quiet realization that drifting isn’t the same as healing.

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

  • Etched in Memory | A Poem About Restraint, Truth, and the Weight of Words

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem came from the space between impulse and consequence—the moment when truth is sharp enough to wound, and restraint becomes a form of survival. Etched in Memory is about knowing exactly how much damage your words can do, and choosing silence not because you are wrong, but because you are precise.

    Some of us learn early that a look can say too much, that honesty—when fully unleashed—doesn’t fade. It marks. It lingers. It becomes permanent.

    This piece is a quiet confession of power held back, of violence softened into poetry, of restraint learned the hard way. Not because the truth wasn’t there—but because it would have lasted.

    — Rowan Evans

    A shadowed figure looking away as dark ink bleeds from their eyes, symbolizing restraint, silence, and words etched into memory.
    Some truths don’t need to be spoken to be permanent.

    Etched in Memory
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    My eyes learned restraint—
    before my mouth ever did.
    So I wouldn’t betray myself
    when I talked my shit.

    It was all—
    facts (fax), no printer.
    I did not
    speak a lie.

    But I
    would try
    not to speak at all.

    Because my eyes
    learned restraint—
    before my mouth ever did.

    Yet, they would
    always
    push me.

    Until…

    I would
    poetically
    dissect them—

    methodically
    dismember,
    until they
    remember.
    My words
    etched
    in memory.

    But my eyes
    learned restraint—
    before my mouth ever did.

    So I look away…

    to stop this shit.

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

  • I Am the Storm That Remembers | A Poem About Memory & Endurance

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some people leave, but their weather stays.
    This poem is not about loss—it is about endurance, memory,
    and the quiet strength it takes to remain standing
    when the storm remembers everything.

    A lone figure standing beneath storm clouds, symbolizing memory, endurance, and emotional survival.
    Some people leave, but their weather stays.

    I Am the Storm That Remembers
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Everyone comes into our lives for a reason,
    but some are only meant for a season.
    Then the weather changes,
    and they begin to drift.
    It may not hit like an immediate shift,
    it may slowly unfold and fade.

    Yet even as they go,
    their footprints linger,
    like sunlight caught in the corner of a room,
    warm but unreachable.

    For me, memories swirl
    like storm clouds roiling overhead,
    thunder rolling through my chest,
    lightning flashing their faces,
    voices cutting through the wind—
    too sharp to ignore, too loud to forget.

    I try to run.
    I try to close the windows,
    pull the shutters tight.
    But the storm is patient.
    It seeps through cracks,
    slips under doors,
    lingers in the spaces I thought I’d cleared.

    Rain falls in shards,
    drenches my quiet moments,
    washes over laughter I can’t recover,
    drowns the footprints of the ones who left.
    And yet, in the chaos,
    there is a strange kind of clarity:
    the storm remembers,
    and so do I.

    I wish I could let it go,
    to be like them—
    so quick to forget,
    so light in the sun.
    But I am not.
    I am the storm’s echo,
    the residue of seasons past,
    and somehow, I carry their weight
    and my own,
    and I am still here,
    breathing,
    walking,
    storm-beaten but alive.

    If you’re looking for more poetry, you can find it here: [The Library of Ashes]

  • Echoes of Reality – A Poetic Reckoning with Memory and Survival

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some experiences leave marks that cannot be erased. Some truths are shouted silently in the shadowed corners of memory.

    Echoes of Reality is my attempt to give voice to a time I was silenced, to the confusion and pain that lingered long after the moments themselves. This piece does not seek comfort or closure—it seeks acknowledgment. It is a testament to survival, to remembering, and to insisting that my reality is my own.

    Read with care, and hold space for the truth it carries.

    Moody, dimly lit room with shadows and a journal, representing reflection on trauma and survival.
    Echoes of Reality – a poetic testament to memory, trauma, and survival.

    Echoes of Reality
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Have you heard somber words spoken,
    and felt the cold touch of trauma?
    Because I know the confusion caused
    by their cold invalidation,
    the questioning of reality,
    like did it really happen—
    the way I’m remembering?

    Their touches, unwanted,
    but that’s not what they’ll tell you,
    gaslighting, rewriting,
    reality to confuse and manipulate,
    to keep you questioning,
    did that really happen—
    the way I’m remembering?

    You try and get away,
    but it follows, always advancing,
    unwanted, it was unwanted,
    but that’s not what they tell you,
    until eventually, even you’ll believe,
    it didn’t really happen—
    the way you’re remembering.

    It’s been years, so why do I still feel them,
    why is my skin not coming clean?
    If it never happened,
    why does it replay in my darkest dreams,
    why does the nightmare keep repeating,
    if it never happened—
    the way I’m remembering?

    I’ve struggled through the dark,
    trying to resurface, but I’m lost here,
    I’m stuck in this place,
    it endlessly replays
    and still, I keep questioning,
    are these even memories?
    But why would I make it up,
    for what?

    My eyes are open, now I see,
    this was my reality,
    it happened, you can’t say it didn’t,
    because it happened to me,
    I lived it.
    I felt it.
    And I know,
    it happened exactly—
    as I’m remembering.