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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: mental-health

  • Back to Darkseid — A Poem About Chaos, Identity, and the Mind

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem started as play.

    I wasn’t trying to be deep or careful — I was letting my brain sprint, letting pop culture, mythology, and intrusive thoughts collide on the page. Comics, villains, alter egos, masks — all the familiar metaphors we use when our minds feel too loud to live in quietly.

    What surprised me wasn’t the darkness, but the balance. This isn’t a descent — it’s a return with awareness. Standing in the light doesn’t mean pretending the shadows don’t exist. It means no longer fearing them.

    This is what it feels like when poetry stops being a tool and starts being a force — when the ink takes over, and you let it.

    Surreal illustration of a figure in shadow with ink tendrils rising up their spine, symbolizing chaos, identity, and creative obsession.
    Where chaos, identity, and ink collide.

    Back to Darkseid
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I walk in,
    ready to rock
    like a shock
    to the system.

    Watch me
    ghost ride the whip,
    hit you with the
    penance stare.

    Watch as you become
    hyper aware
    of every misdeed,
    and every sin seeps
    into the veins.

    It circulates
    until it hits
    the brain.

    Lights out.

    Silence.

    My noggin’s
    an asylum,
    I’m sick in the head.
    Coin flip of fate,
    I’m two-faced
    with my joker’s thoughts.

    I’m a dark knight,
    on a dark night—
    fighting the monsters
    that my mind creates.

    Don’t try to figure me out.
    I’m an enigma, a riddle
    with no answer.

    A twisted harlequin
    in a garden
    made by Ivy.
    Each petal unfurls,
    guiding—
    leading me back
    from the edge.

    Now I’m standing in the light,
    back to Darkseid—
    I no longer fear
    Apocalypse.

    Watch my ink
    twist into tendrils.
    Watch as they
    wrap around,
    and creep up
    my spine like venom.
    Watch as poetry
    slowly,
    takes over
    my mind.

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

  • Paul T. Geist & RoRo: A Gentle Poem About Calm, Feelings, and Finding Peace

    Rowan Evans

    Sometimes the world feels loud in ways we can’t explain.
    This was written as a soft place to land—
    for kids, for anxious hearts, for anyone who needs a reminder
    that calm is something you can learn, not something you have to earn.

    A friendly glowing ghost and a child drifting through a peaceful, magical landscape of moonlight, flowers, and calm waters.
    Paul T. Geist guiding RoRo through the Land of Calm and Cheer, where big feelings learn how to breathe.

    Paul T. Geist & RoRo’s Adventures in the Land of Calm and Cheer
    Poetry by Roo the Poet
    Written September 13th, 2024

    In a cozy little town where moonbeams play,
    Lived a ghost named Paul T. Geist who loved to sway.
    With a gentle laugh and a shimmer so light,
    He brought comfort and joy on a soft, starry night.

    RoRo was a girl full of bright, happy beams,
    But sometimes her feelings were wild, it seems.
    One day she felt frazzled, her emotions a storm,
    And her mood became chilly, her smile not so warm.

    Paul T. Geist floated by with a friendly glow,
    “Dear RoRo,” he said, “there’s something you should know.
    Let’s visit a land where calmness takes flight,
    And find peace for your heart on this magical night.”

    They drifted through fog that was soft and serene,
    To the Land of Calm and Cheer, where joy was seen.
    “Welcome,” said Paul, “to a place so profound,
    Where finding your calm is the treasure you’ve found.”

    They met a wise owl with feathers of blue,
    Who spoke of deep breaths and feelings anew.
    “Sometimes,” said the owl, “our minds race so fast,
    But finding still moments can make calmness last.”

    RoRo watched as the owl closed her eyes tight,
    And took gentle breaths to feel peaceful delight.
    She saw how stillness could quiet the storm,
    And how feelings could settle, transforming the norm.

    Paul T. Geist then showed her a pond so clear,
    Where ripples of peace danced near and dear.
    “When you’re feeling stormy, take a deep breath,
    Like ripples that spread, it helps calm the depths.”

    They visited a meadow where colors would sway,
    In hues that brought calm to each passing day.
    RoRo learned to breathe deeply and slow,
    Finding calm in the feelings that ebb and flow.

    As they floated back home, RoRo felt light,
    Her heart now at peace, her emotions just right.
    She learned to embrace her feelings with care,
    And find calm in the storm, floating light as air.

    Paul T. Geist waved with a glow soft and bright,
    “Remember, dear RoRo, your feelings are light.
    In the Land of Calm and Cheer, you’ve learned so much,
    To find peace and calm with a gentle touch.”

    So children, remember, as you grow and play,
    Find calm in your heart at the end of the day.
    For in the Land of Calm and Cheer so near,
    Peace can be found, and your heart will be clear.

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

  • Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes) – A Poem About Turning Pain Into Power

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems are confessions.
    Some are exorcisms.

    This one is alchemy.

    Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes) came from that familiar edge—when the weight presses in, when the mind contracts, when the darkness feels like it might finally win. But instead of letting it consume me, I let it become something. I let it turn into ink.

    This poem is about that moment of reclamation.
    About taking what hurts and making it mine.
    About refusing to be only what the darkness names me.

    If you’ve ever felt yourself folding inward—this is for you.
    If you’ve ever made art out of survival—this is yours too.

    A shadowed poet with glowing eyes as black ink pours from their hands, transforming into swirling symbols of power in a dark, gothic setting.
    Turning darkness into language. Pain into power. Ink into alchemy.

    Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I am all sixes when its needed,
    this darkness,
    your hatred feeds it.

    I can feel it—
    crawling up my spine,
    that creeping feeling.
    It twists around my mind,
    contracting.

    I can feel it squeeze,
    as I fall to knees.

    My eyes flicker and flash,
    fade to black—
    as you see
    my face distort.
    Twisted reflection.
    Personified depression.

    Can you see—
    as I begin to bleed ink?
    It pours from me,
    covering fingers,
    hands and arms.

    It twists,
    never relents.

    …

    I’m a motherfucking
    alchemist,
    the way I take my pain
    and change it.
    I’ll write like hell,
    to subtly rearrange it.

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

  • Between Worlds – A Poem About Mental Illness, Identity & Survival | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is the closest I’ve come to writing the truth of my internal war without softening it. Between Worlds is about self-violence—the way the mind learns your weak spots, remembers the old wounds, and knows exactly where to cut. It’s a poem about relapse, about memory, about survival, and about the strange loneliness that follows healing.

    It speaks to the years where I wasn’t sure I’d make it. The hospital walls. The padded quiet. The fluorescent lights humming through the silence. It speaks to dissociation, to identity, to queerness, and to the mythic distance I’ve always felt between who I am and the world I live in.

    This poem isn’t a cry for help—it’s a record of survival. It isn’t tragedy for tragedy’s sake—it’s truth. It’s the reality that healing isn’t linear, that progress has shadows, and that sometimes the loudest battles are fought in the mind no one else can see.

    If you know this feeling—of standing in your own skin like it never quite fits, of fighting thoughts with thoughts, of loving your existence even when you question your place in it—then I hope you feel seen here.

    Because none of us are alone in the in-between.

    — Rowan Evans

    Nonbinary person standing between a hospital hallway and a star-filled night sky, symbolizing dissociation and identity between worlds.
    Between Worlds — artwork representing Rowan Evans’ poem about surviving mental illness, dissociation, and identity beyond binaries.

    Between Worlds
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Why do I
    always try
    to pick a fight
    with me?

    You’d think I’d know,
    by now, just how
    quick I’ll slip
    an insult
    under the ribs.

    I’ll hit
    every single fear,
    twist them
    like a knife—
    until I’m
    on my knees,
    gasping,
    spitting blood.

    I don’t fight fair.
    I target old wounds,
    tear at what’s
    already healed.
    I’ll fuck around
    and send myself
    back ten years—
    back to hospital walls
    and quiet rooms,
    where the only sound
    was the fluorescent hum.

    Where time dissolved…
    where clocks stopped
    ticking.

    But I walked out
    of those halls—
    didn’t I?

    Didn’t I?

    But what if I didn’t?
    What if I’m still locked inside,
    in a padded room
    with the jacket
    strapped tight?
    Thoughts confined,
    so the words
    won’t escape.

    Writing poems
    in my head,
    just to pass
    the time.

    I’ve been alive,
    but dead inside.
    And I’ll be honest:
    I’ve died
    inside my mind
    more than
    a dozen times.

    I just wanted escape.

    Escape from pain,
    from feeling misplaced—
    I just wanted
    to belong.

    But it’s like—
    something is wrong here.
    Why don’t I
    feel like
    I belong here?

    Why does everything feel
    a half inch to the left—
    like I’m living inside
    the echo of myself?

    Like I’m watching my life
    from behind fogged glass,
    palms against the surface,
    screaming—
    but no sound
    passes through.

    Sometimes I swear
    the world forgets I’m here,
    and sometimes
    I do too.

    Maybe it’s because
    every room I walk into,
    I’m half a ghost already—
    too queer, too quiet,
    too soft, too strange.
    Too fucking much
    for everyone
    but me.

    Maybe that’s why
    the fight never ends—
    because I’m still trying
    to prove I deserve
    the space I take up,
    even in my own skin.

    So maybe I don’t belong here
    because I was born
    between worlds—
    not alive, not dead,
    not human, not myth,
    not safe, not ruined.

    Maybe my bones remember
    a home I never had,
    and every heartbeat since
    has been an attempt
    to map
    my way back.

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

  • When the Mask Slips | Neo-Gothic Confessional Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    When the Mask Slips explores the fragile boundary between performed sanity and inner unraveling. Through vivid imagery, surreal metaphor, and a self-aware voice, Rowan Evans captures the terror and beauty of identity under pressure, where the mask may be all that stands between perception and emptiness.

    Neo-Gothic digital illustration of a solitary figure with a Cheshire grin sitting at a flickering-lit table, representing the fragility of identity and performed sanity.
    When the Mask Slips visualized: a lone figure navigating the fragile line between performance and inner self.

    When the Mask Slips
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I am going to be honest—

    I think I’ve lost my mind,
    I’ve been drifting in this mental fog.
    Wandering. Lost.
    Not sure what I was trying to find,
    not sure what was the cost.

    But I’ve been—
    orbiting annihilation,
    facing Armageddon
    in phases—
    the moon isn’t the only thing
    that disappears piece by piece.

    I keep losing track of my thoughts
    like loose teeth—
    wiggling them
    just to feel something give.
    I’m just a Mad Hatter,
    with a Cheshire grin—
    screaming “Off with their heads!”
    just to hear the echo—
    make sure the room and I are still real.

    Sometimes—
    I cosplay sanity,
    like I have a grasp on reality.
    Like I know the meaning of stability—
    mentally.
    I dress up, pretend that I’m normal—
    but it feels too boring and formal,
    too exposed.
    Too much light, not enough shade,
    too many eyes on my face.

    And underneath it all,
    I’m terrified there’s nothing there—
    when the world stops being a stage,
    when existence stops being a performance.
    When the mask slips…
    and it’s just me.

    (God, what if that’s worse?)

    Author’s Note

    This poem sits at the edge between humor and unraveling—between the persona we show the world and the version of ourselves we hope no one ever sees. It isn’t about insanity; it’s about the fear that sanity might be nothing more than costume, choreography, and survival instinct.

    It uses absurdity as honesty, because sometimes the surreal is the only language for a fraying mind. The Wonderland imagery isn’t playful fantasy—it’s metaphorical dissociation. The poem is meant to feel unsteady, spiraling, self-aware, and a little unhinged. It asks:

    What if the mask isn’t hiding anything?
    What if the performance is the person?

    This piece reflects the quiet terror of identity erosion—the dread that beneath the jokes, the aesthetics, the manic charm, and the polished poetry… there may be nothing solid to hold onto.

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

  • 131 Days: A Journey Through Words, Fire, and Devotion

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is a reflection on persistence, inspiration, and the threads that connect my work over the past year. Each italicized title is a window into the poems that shaped this journey—moments of love, desire, trauma, healing, and devotion.

    At its heart, this is about process as much as outcome: the daily practice of writing, the sparks of muse, and the quiet work done in the late hours when the world is still. It’s also a tribute to those who witness these words—across screens, pages, and hearts—you are part of this ongoing journey too.

    Consider this piece a bridge: between poems, between moments, between the past and the work yet to come.

    A writer’s hands holding a pen over scattered pages of poetry, lit by a warm lamp, evoking quiet inspiration and devotion.
    Late nights, ink-stained fingers, and the quiet companionship of words—where every poem begins.

    131 Days
    (A Journey Through Words, Fire, and Devotion)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been
    so focused—
    over-focused, some say.
    One hundred thirty-one days
    and counting.

    I’ve written with range:
    love, desire, mental health,
    trauma, recovery.
    There’s more, of course,
    but that’s the core.

    I write like
    A Heart Unveiled,
    witnessing the
    Colors of Your Soul.
    My pen
    revealing,
    the Infinity Within.
    As my mind
    drifts free
    in The Hallow Sea.

    My muse,
    my inspiration is—
    A-Woman.
    The vision of beauty,
    an angel on earth—
    a Filipina,
    with fire in her eyes.
    When the world tries
    to put her fire out,
    that is when I
    Cry to the Quiet.
    And why
    I Am
    offering myself
    to her, fully.
    Freely.
    For you see,
    she—
    is Perfectly Imperfect,
    which means…
    she is perfect for me.

    She has shown me,
    that there are
    Timelines Worth Rewriting.
    And your essence,
    I will never forget—
    because
    I Am the Storm That Remembers.

    Late nights, ink-stained fingers,
    the quiet my closest companion.
    For those who witness, across pages and screens,
    you carry a piece of this journey too.
    And still, I write on.

    If you enjoyed this piece and want to check out more of my work, you can click one of the many links scattered throughout the poem itself. They take you to my highest viewed pieces of the year. I am not saying they are my best pieces, just the ones that got the most views. Anyway, you can find more of my work here: [The Library of Ashes]

  • When Survival Gets Quiet – A Poem About Healing, Pain, and Being Seen

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece came from a place of uncomfortable clarity — the kind that only arrives after you’ve survived enough storms to notice the patterns in the people around you. There’s a strange truth I’ve learned over the years: some people loved me louder when I was breaking than when I was healing. Pain made me poetic, easy to praise, easy to place on a pedestal of tragedy. But healing? Healing is quieter, steadier, less romantic. And somehow, to some people, that made it less worthy of attention.

    I didn’t write this to shame anyone. I wrote it because it’s real — because recovery deserves reverence too, because resilience isn’t any less beautiful than collapse, and because we don’t talk enough about how lonely healing can be.

    This piece is for anyone who’s ever felt more valuable broken than whole. For anyone rebuilding themselves without applause. For anyone learning to exist without having to bleed for validation.

    You are still art.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure in a dim, gothic museum surrounded by cracked statues, symbolizing healing after emotional collapse.
    Even survival can feel quiet in a world that only learned to listen to the sound of breaking.

    When Survival Gets Quiet
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s always been strange to me
    how people praised me louder
    when I was dying inside
    than when I wasn’t.

    And I don’t say this
    to make anyone feel shame—
    it’s just something I’ve noticed
    over time.
    Over a lot of motherfuckin’ time.

    I can think back
    to so many moments
    where I was ready to check out.
    Where the smallest thing
    felt like the final straw.

    And I don’t say that
    to minimize, or erase,
    or make light of the weight
    those moments carried.

    They held me like a museum tragedy—
    a relic of ruin,
    a beautiful collapse.

    But when I finally learned to breathe again,
    their applause softened,
    like my healing made the art
    less valuable.

    Maybe it’s easier to love me
    when I’m bleeding metaphors
    than when I’m quietly rebuilding.

    Maybe survival is too quiet
    for people who only learned
    to listen to the sound
    of breaking.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.

  • From Chaos to Clarity – Poetry on Struggle, Introspection & Growth by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    These paired pieces come from a place of reflection, reckoning, and resilience. Ten Beers is written from the perspective of a younger self, caught in the cycle of self-medication, chaos, and denial. Its repetition mirrors the rituals we create to escape, the desperate attempts to quiet the storm in our own minds.

    Through Clear Eyes is the response, the voice of survival and understanding. It looks back with compassion, honesty, and accountability, confronting past pain while acknowledging growth. Together, they explore addiction, self-destruction, and ultimately, forgiveness—both of oneself and of the ways we survive.

    I offer these poems as a testament to the storms we endure, the patterns we outgrow, and the quiet victories of seeing clearly, even after years of being lost in the haze.

    — Rowan Evans

    “Person overwhelmed by thoughts, surrounded by empty beer cans and abstract swirls of color.”
    Chasing the blackout, quieting the storm within.

    Ten Beers
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I drank ten beers,
    then I drank ten more—
    just trying to escape my mind.
    To numb the pain,
    to quiet the storm inside.
    I drank ten beers,
    then I drank ten more.

    It wasn’t a problem in my eyes,
    I had it all under control.
    I could stop when I wanted—
    I just didn’t want to.
    So I drank and drank,
    then I drank some more.
    I drank ten beers,
    then I drank ten more.

    I chased the blackout,
    just wanted to turn the lights out.
    Quiet the storm raging unseen.
    It’s all in your head. Just don’t be sad.
    If only it were that easy.
    I was drunk every weekend—
    the only way I could be.
    I couldn’t see…
    there were people who needed me.

    I remember waking up,
    cans lined up—
    eighteen, twenty deep.
    I’d stumble to my feet,
    this was weekly, rinse and repeat.
    I drank ten beers,
    then I drank ten more—
    just trying to quiet the storm.

    I poured liquor into whatever cup,
    goal was to get fucked up.
    Chasing the blackout, turning the lights out.
    Cut power. Fade out.
    I thought I was fine,
    thought I was in control—
    but the alcohol had a hold of me.
    I was borderline,
    still telling myself “I’m fine.”
    But I wasn’t.
    I was numbing the pain,
    avoiding everything.
    So I—
    drank ten beers,
    then I drank ten more.

    It was a problem.
    Felt like I was the problem.
    But I was just trying to quiet the storm—
    raging in my head,
    while I whispered,
    “I’m young, just having fun.”

    “Person sitting at a sunlit window, reflecting with clarity and peace.”
    Through introspection, clarity emerges.

    Through Clear Eyes
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    You weren’t having fun,
    you were hurting—
    you just refused to see.
    You numbed yourself too much,
    blurred your own vision,
    slurred your words.

    You were hurting,
    and thought you could fix it
    by getting fucked up.
    I forgive you, but—
    look what we did to us.
    You drank to numb the pain,
    to quiet the storm inside our brain.

    Then I had to fight like hell
    just to feel normal again.
    It was toxic, the way we coped.
    We lashed out, bitter all the time,
    still swearing we were fine.

    Had to make phone calls
    to find missing clothes—
    and you still couldn’t see.
    The problem was me.

    Closing Note

    These pieces reflect a time when alcohol was a way to quiet the storm in my head, a form of self-medication I thought I could control. Through introspection, reflection, and deliberate inner work, my relationship with alcohol has changed. Today, I can drink without chasing blackouts, without using it to numb myself. I write these poems not to glorify past behavior, but to bear witness to it, to understand it, and to acknowledge how far I’ve come.

    — Rowan Evans

    You can find all of my work in my archive [The Library of Ashes].

  • Exhibit of Survival – Reflection on Resilience and Empathy by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece reflects on the quiet strength it takes to remain soft in a world that often tries to harden you. It’s a personal reflection on resilience, empathy, and the enduring capacity to love, even in the face of doubt and adversity.

    This post marks my 83rd consecutive day of sharing on the blog,   I have not missed a day since August 8th… During this time, I have tried to push myself to be a little more open. A little more honest. Even when it’s hard, even when I just want to be closed off from the world…

    Figure sitting on the floor surrounded by pinned papers and threads, illuminated by soft light, representing reflection, resilience, and quiet strength.
    Caught in the threads of life — resilience and reflection hold them in place.

    Exhibit of Survival
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Pins.
    They hold me in place.
    As the glass
    lowers over my face.
    Framed.
    In a frame. On display.
    Like a dead butterfly.

    I have had people in my life who pretended to be on my side—who pretended to care—when really, they just wanted front-row seats to my struggles. They wanted to watch as I unraveled, whispering doubts to freeze me in place, to preserve the ache. To keep me from moving forward. And yet, I still pushed. I still tried.

    Threads.
    Tied to limbs.
    Marionette.
    Puppet on strings.
    They’ve got control of me.
    Free? Not really.

    Those same people tried to talk me out of anything I wanted to do—anything that could bring me closer to the life I wanted. “Why do you want to leave America?” they’d ask. But it’s not my home; it’s just the place I was born. The place I was raised. I’ve never felt like I belong here. Not once.

    Everything holds me back—my brain looping their doubts, my own depression and anxiety echoing them back to me. It’s a war on all fronts. And still, I stand.

    My thoughts.
    They flutter and fade
    in this liminal space.
    It’s pain—
    just to be alive.
    It’s a wonder.
    A miracle.
    How have I survived?

    Resilience. And reminders from the few who truly see me, who truly believe in me. Without them, I might have given up long ago. But because of them, I’ve kept my empathy alive. I’ve refused apathy. I’ve stayed soft. I’ve kept my heart open and given love freely.

    How?
    How have I
    made it to thirty-five?
    Every day I wake up.
    Surprised.

    That surprise isn’t mine anymore. It’s the echo of others’ doubts—ones I no longer answer.

  • mabuti ako ng hindi ako mabuti – Poem by Rowan Evans | Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Mabuti ako ng hindi ako mabuti was born from that familiar ache of being awake while the world sleeps—the quiet, heavy solitude of overthinking and feeling too much. It’s about seeing the beauty in others while struggling to recognize it in yourself, about cracks, missing pieces, and the weight of empathy in a world that can feel cold.

    The poem weaves together languages, not by accident but by instinct: the Tagalog line as both title and closing heartbeat, grounding the piece in a personal, intimate voice; and my youthful “Nani the fuck?”—a playful, yet sharp, reflection of confusion and disbelief, a nod to my early fascination with Japanese and the way language can capture emotion in a single exclamation.

    This is a poem about exhaustion, insomnia, and the unrelenting pressure of a sensitive heart. It’s also about holding space for yourself the way you hold space for others—learning to see your own gold, even when the lanterns have burned out and the path is dark.

    Solitary figure sitting on bed in dimly lit room, hands covering face, shadows cast across cracked walls with scattered glowing Kintsugi fragments on the floor, evoking introspection and emotional struggle.
    Even in darkness and brokenness, fragments of unseen beauty remain.

    Mabuti Ako ng Hindi Ako Mabuti
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand before the mirror—
    and all I see, staring back at me
    are cracks.
    I’m just a broken mess,
    a bowl full of holes—
    too big to mend with gold.

    I’ve got—
    too many missing pieces.
    Too many pieces left behind.
    There’s no Kintsugi here.
    No witnesses near.

    Shaking hands and tear stained face,
    I’m so alone, always alone.
    Even with people around.

    All my relationships—
    The color of autumn.
    People leave.

    Now I ask—
    why can’t I see the beauty
    in my own imperfections?
    Why do I only hold that view,
    for everyone but me?
    Why can’t I see?
    Why am I so blind to me?

    And I feel stuck in the dark.
    My laterns burned out,
    I’m wandering lost.
    Is this the cost—
    for being a gentle soul like me?

    The world wasn’t made for me—
    I’m too warm for apathy,
    I cling to empathy like a life vest.
    I give weary souls a place to rest,
    but nowhere for me to lay my head…
    So I stay up instead.

    Insomnia has a hold on me. 
    I’ve stayed up for two days— 
    in one twenty-four hour period. 
    How does that add up? 
    But that’s the math. 
    Don’t laugh. Don’t ask.
    Nani the fuck?

    Yet still, people ask,
    “How are you doing?”
    I say, mabuti ako
    ng hindi ako mabuti.

    If you enjoyed this poem, check out more of my work [here].