This poem traces the moment when disconnection stopped being temporary and started feeling structural. At fourteen, I didn’t just feel out of place—I felt offline. Like my signal never quite reached the world I was standing in.
The language of technology felt like the closest mirror for that experience: dropped signals, endless queues, systems that never respond. This isn’t nostalgia, and it isn’t blame—it’s recognition. Naming the feeling that followed me for years before I understood what it was.
Some people search for belonging. Some of us search for a connection that was never stable to begin with.
— Rowan Evans
Some disconnections start early—and never fully resolve.
Disconnected Since Fourteen (Lost in Queue) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I used to sit alone, lost in thoughts of far off places—far from… home.
I’d write about every one, write about them in my… poems.
The way longing bled into art, art bled the words from my heart. It was the truth spilling— feeling homeless, since I was fourteen.
Felt disconnected, like the Wi-Fi dropped. Mind static, dramatic, screaming like… dial-up.
Trying to connect to somewhere that never answers. Server overloaded, lost in queue— endless, connection loop.
I do not belong here. Everything feels wrong here.
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.
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.
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.
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.
These words spill like blood and ink. They explore fear, shame, and the weight of confession. Step forward only if you feel steady.
Your breath, your life, and your heart are sacred. If these words stir difficult feelings, pause, breathe, and reach for light, support, or care. You are never truly alone in the dark.
Where ink becomes confession and scars learn how to shine.
Sprawling Thoughts Poetry by Rowan Evans
I put the pen to paper
like a gun to my head.
Pull the trigger,
write the first line—
watch the ink splatter,
like brain matter—
as thoughts sprawl,
and crawl
across
the page.
This is what
confession feels like,
when I write.
I pour
my heart out
on the page.
The fear and shame,
I give it shape,
I give it a name.
I dance with my demons,
and map my scars
like astronomers
mapping stars.
Sometimes the hardest place to be is alone with your own thoughts. Not distracted. Not performing. Not numbed. Just you—unfiltered, unguarded, uncomfortably present.
This piece isn’t about self-love as a slogan. It’s about self-confrontation. About whether you can remain seated when there’s no one left to impress, no one left to blame, and no one left to lean on.
Because growth doesn’t begin when things feel good. It begins when you stop running.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the hardest company to keep is your own.
Can You Sit With Yourself? Poetry by Rowan Evans
Can you sit
with yourself?
Not on a pedestal,
not on a shelf—
can you fucking
sit with your
self?
In your thoughts,
in your mind—
can you wander,
can you stroll,
or would you be
troubled
by what you find?
Would you bend,
or break—
could you carry
the weight?
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.
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.
This poem is not about wanting to die. It is about learning how to survive long before learning how to live.
Reflecting on survival, solitude, and the quiet strength found in shadows.
Since I Was Thirteen (Fluent in Survival) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I feel like I’m lost,
I’m wandering.
Twisted thoughts,
I’m pondering.
My demise
in a life I despise.
It’s not that I want to die—
I’m just tired
of trying to survive.
I want to be happy.
I’m alive.
But my head
is so full of dread—
every morning
a negotiation
just to get out of bed.
Body feels heavy,
limbs lagging—
everything moves
in slow-motion.
Slipping into shadows—
going home.
The light has never felt like mine.
I was born in the shadows,
raised in the shade.
Darkness has been
my mindscape—
since I was thirteen.
I learned early
how to make myself small—
how to soften my footsteps
inside my own head.
I memorized the weight of silence,
learned which thoughts were safe to keep
and which ones
needed to stay buried.
Survival became a second language,
spoken fluently,
even when no one was listening.
I say I’m alive
like it’s a defense—
like survival
should be enough.
But living
feels like something other people do
without rehearsing it first.
Closing Note
I wrote this for anyone who learned survival before they learned safety. For those who are still here, even when “alive” feels like a negotiation. You are not failing — you are fluent in something the world never taught gently.
This poem is not a cry for help — it’s a confession. It’s the truth about living in a body that feels too heavy, a heart that beats even when I’m too tired to hold it. For anyone who knows what it’s like to rise with no hope, no spark, just sheer stubborn survival — this one is for you. You’re not alone in the mornings that feel impossible. You’re not alone in the weight.
“Even when the body feels heavy and the heart refuses rest, the spirit rises — a ghost in its own skin.”
Ghost in My Body Poetry by Rowan Evans
I awoke,
empty of hope.
Chest tight, eyes wide—
the world felt
unbearably heavy.
I took a minute,
recalibrated.
I fix my face
into something readable,
something quiet—
because they’ll look
straight into my eyes,
and still ask,
“But… are you happy?”
I haven’t really been
since I was thirteen—
the year something in me
stopped blooming.
Yeah, it’s been
a lack of smiles,
since I
was thirteen.
The year the light in me
learned to dim itself.
It’s been a
constant struggle,
as I’ve struggled constantly.
I struggle to find
my place.
I struggle to recognize
my face.
Trust me, when I say
I struggle with everything.
Like, I don’t want to die,
but I—
don’t really want to be alive.
It’s a struggle
just to survive.
It’s a struggle just to survive,
carrying a body
that feels heavier
than I do.
Dragging a heartbeat
that won’t quit
even when I’m tired of holding it.
And yet—
every morning,
somehow,
I rise.
Not healed,
not whole,
just here.
Dragging the weight,
of a heartbeat
that refuses to stop
even when I want rest,
even when I want it to.
I’m just
a ghost still trying
to haunt its own body.
But still,
I pull myself upright—
not because I’m hopeful,
but because something in me
refuses to die quietly.
And maybe one day
the bloom returns,
the light rekindles—
but tonight,
I just breathe
and call it survival.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
This poem is a reflection on the long, quiet war I’ve carried inside my mind for most of my life. I wrote this piece as an acknowledgment of survival—not as a victory march, but as a tired, honest admission that I’m still here. Depression and anxiety are battles most people never see, but if you’re fighting them too, I hope this reminds you that surviving is a form of defiance. You’re not alone, and your existence—even in the hardest moments—is a testament to your strength.
A visual representation of the internal war between survival and despair.
I Survive (I’m Alive) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I stand in the midst of a battlefield— not literal, but metaphor. And I still struggle to see what this struggle is even for. There is a war raging in my head, between the voice that wants to live and the voice that wants me dead.
That was me at sixteen. Now I’m thirty-five— still wondering how I’m even alive. And though I’ve fought like hell, I’m not doing well. Yet I survive. Even when I don’t thrive, I’m alive.
Alive in spite of years of internal torment. So go on— tell me I’m going to hell for the way I live. I’ll face eternal torment with a smile on my face; I’ve lived it already.
Next year, I’ll be thirty-six. Six. Six. They say I’m evil in my ways, that even the devil wouldn’t praise. But that’s okay— because I’m mentally sick. Sick. Sick.
Depression. Anxiety. They are the rot inside of me. I see them with clarity. I don’t need your pity or charity.
I just need patience, and understanding— but you won’t give it, because you’ve never lived it. So how could you? How could you understand what it’s like to both want to live and to die at the same time, in the same breath?
But I won’t leave. I won’t shed this flesh. I’ve made promises. I promised… I’m not going anywhere.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
The Rot & The Poet is a confessional dialogue between two voices that have lived within me for over two decades — the one that wants to create, and the one that whispers destruction. It’s the internal war of survival that every artist who’s faced depression knows too well.
This poem is not about defeat; it’s about endurance. It’s about knowing that the shadow doesn’t win just because it speaks louder — and that light, even when trembling, still burns.
“Even shadows need light to exist.” — The Rot & The Poet
The Rot & The Poet Poetry by Rowan Evans
[The Rot] Hello Rowan, it’s me again… The voice that lingers inside your head, The one that whispers, making you wish you were dead. You thought I was gone, but I’m still here, Making you wish you’d just disappear.
[The Poet] Shut up. You’re nothing. A voice that matters not, Just internal rot, Creeping only when I have something to say. You’re just a monster.
[The Rot] Oh, I’m not the monster… That’s you, walking rot on the world. You think you matter? You don’t even know if you’re a boy or a girl. You’re so pathetic.
[The Poet] Pathetic? More like prophetic. I see what the future brings, And it brings clarity. I write as charity, I write to give back to the world. You try to dim that.
[The Rot] You write to give back to the world? You write for a world that wishes you forgotten. Or did you forget? Nobody wants you here. You’ve got a voice—nobody wants to hear.
[The Poet] That’s not true. People are listening… From Germany to Spain, Ireland, Sweden, and Singapore too. Kenya to the Philippines, India, Hungary, and France… I’ve got people that pay attention; It’s my words they consume.
[The Rot] You can think what you want, But you’re nothing without me. Do you think you’d actually be happy? When you thought I was gone, You were still in the dark, wallowing, Still trying to figure out what you wanted.
[The Poet] I knew exactly what I wanted. I was starting to make moves. I was working toward my goals, But then you showed your ugly head again, Tried to twist my thoughts, Tried to make me think I wished to be dead again.
[The Rot] Ha ha… Don’t make me laugh. You’re nothing, remember? You think you’ve got friends, You think you’ve got fans? Do you really think anyone truly understands?
[The Poet] I don’t think I have fans, But I know I have friends. I have people that care, And they tell me all the time.
[The Rot] They’re just lying. Nobody truly cares. If they did, they’d be here.
[The Poet] Fuck you. I won’t let you in again. I won’t let you win again. You won’t push me to the edge, You won’t make me want to jump. I won’t question my worth anymore— Not for you, not for the voice inside my head, Not for anyone that makes me wish I were dead.
[The Rot] Oh, you’re too cute. Rowan, just think for a minute. Think about what you’re saying. You think you can cut me off? You think you’re in control? How long have I been with you? Since you were thirteen… Twenty-two years now?
[The Poet] Twenty-two years, yes. I’ll confess, you’ve had a hold on me. You’ve almost broken me. But I’ve always fought back. I’ve always survived. Look at me—thirty-five, still alive.
[The Rot] Still alive? Maybe. But are you truly surviving?
[The Poet] I’m still breathing, and that’s enough.
[The Rot] Breathing? You’re bleeding. Is that the life you want to live?
[The Poet] Shut up! Just shut up!
[The Rot] Oh, look at you… You’re shaking. Am I getting under your skin? I feel it… I’m so close to breaking you, Making you finally see… You’re nothing without me. You need the pain, you need the hate. You need something you can take and shape.
[The Poet] If you were as strong as you say you are, You wouldn’t disappear in the morning. You’d still be here, keeping me mourning. But the sun will rise, and you’ll fade from my eyes. You’ll be gone from my mind.
[The Rot] Until the sun sets. Then I’m back again, Your only true friend. The one that never leaves, The one who’s stayed through seasons change.
[The Poet] That might be true. You might be my longest companion. The depression, the anxiety— I know you stay, living inside me.
[The Rot] Inside your mind, Inside your marrow. The doubt that creeps in With everything you say. The reason love leaves, And you continue to bleed… The one that keeps your words moving, The self-hate you need.
[The Poet] Then you admit it— You live because I do. You breathe because I write. Every time I put pen to page, You leech a little life from me, But I still create. I still survive.
You’re the shadow, I’m the flame— And shadows can’t exist without the light.
[The Rot] Okay, you’re right. I can’t live without the light. But as long as I’m here, It’s the light you truly fear. You dwell in the shadows, In my domain. You only know you’re alive Because you feel my pain.
[The Poet] You think I need you? When really, it’s you that needs me. You’re the shadow, I’m the flame. Without my fire, There’s no shadow to cast.
Sure, my art thrives in the pain you create, But I thrive in the love, and the light— Everything you hate.
Without me, You’re nothing. Just an afterthought. Without me, There is no you… There is no rot.
It’s me, the core of this being, The heart of the Fourfold Flame, That gives everything in us a name. You think you can break me, But you’ve been trying— For nearly twenty-three years now, You’ve been trying to shatter me.
You’ve been shadowing, Trying to block out the light. But once the light fades… So do you.
If you made it this far and want to read more of my work, you can find it in The Library of Ashes—[here].
Poetry by Rowan Evans 