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].
Some wounds do not heal; they become architecture. The Cathedral Within is the map of mine. It is the sacred ruin I carry — where gargoyles remember my laughter, where ghosts wear the faces of those I loved, and where even the pews grow teeth when I speak.
This is not a poem about despair. It is about defiance. About what it means to cradle darkness without letting it consume your capacity to love. It is a prayer for those who choose softness anyway — velvet over iron, kiss over curse — and win, simply by refusing to grow cold.
The Cathedral Within — where softness stands as rebellion in the ruins.
✦ Invocation ✦
There is a cathedral rotting in my mind—
its steeple split by lightning,
its bells tolling madness
in a language only I understand.
The walls bleed scripture in reverse.
The air stinks of burnt prayer and mildew.
Gargoyles laugh with broken jaws,
their eyes brimming with everything I’ve buried.
✦ The Procession ✦
Demons waltz in blood-soaked gowns, twirling through the nave with glee— my failures their favorite hymn, my shame the rhythm beneath their feet.
Ghosts hang from the rafters like forgotten chandeliers, dripping memories onto cracked marble. Each one wears a face I loved, each one left me hollow.
The altar is an autopsy table. They dissect my past there nightly— the knife a whisper, the blade my own voice asking why I wasn’t enough.
✦ The Vigil ✦
I lived a decade as a wraith— not alive, not dead, just echo. A loop of regret rerun in shadows, a scream too hoarse to haunt.
I’ve stitched myself from sinew and smoke, patched the holes with confessions no one stayed long enough to hear. Even the pews grow teeth when I speak.
These bones? They rattle with rot, splinter under silence, but still I rise— a marionette of will, strung together by threads of stubborn grace.
✦ The Benediction ✦
This softness—they call it weakness, but— softness is my rebellion. It is velvet over iron, a lullaby sung to devils, a kiss placed gently on the mouth of the void.
I do not know why I try. Only that I do. That something inside me refuses to go quietly into apathy.
So if you saw the dark I cradle— the feral, starving chaos I contain— you’d understand: choosing love is not a gentle thing. It is a war.
And every time I smile instead of scream, I win.
“Even in the rot, there is light. Even in the silence, there is song. Keep choosing love, and you’ve already won.” — Rowan Evans
These words dwell in shadows of grief, loss, and the ache of unseen burdens. They speak of sorrow, despair, and the fragile pulse of the human heart. Read only if you feel steady, and remember—your safety, your breath, your life are sacred. You are not alone in the dark.
✦ Invocation ✦
Before the breath stills, these words hang in the hush — not to beg for saving, but to name what was lost and what was never held.
“Tip the Chair” by Rowan Evans — A Neo-Gothic Confessional poem invoking grief, memory, and mercy in the shadows between loss and light.
Tip the Chair Poetry by Rowan Evans
Noose tied, tears dried— I’m so fucking tired. Voice silent, prayers unsaid, it was you I was wanting, because you keep the ghosts at bay.
Tip the chair, I’m hanging there— oh, the thoughts of you, flashing through— memories sharp as shattered glass, cuts I carry into the dark.
My mind it races, heartbeat slows, lungs burning for a mercy that never shows—
and in that last hush, I see nothing but smiling faces— yours among them, unburdened, untouched by this ache that broke me.
And don’t take this for bitterness— I’m glad you’re happy, truly, I am…
✦ Benediction ✦
May your nights be softer than mine. May the ghosts that stayed for me pass you by in mercy. And if these words remain— let them weigh less than the silence that birthed them.
🕯️ If you’re struggling, please read this:
You matter. Your pain is real. Your story is not over. Here are some resources—because your flame is worth protecting:
🇺🇲 United States
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Call or text 988 https://988lifeline.org Free, 24/7 support for emotional distress and mental health crises.
“There are moments the abyss feels like home. So we return to the edge—not to wish for flight, but to see how far we fall.” — Rowan Evans
These two poems were written in different hours of darkness, but they share the same marrow: A gospel whispered from the edge of belief. A confession to the sky and to the abyss alike. One is a prayer wrapped in doubt. The other, a quiet litany of almost-leaping.
They are my sacred offerings to anyone who has ever felt broken but still breathing; to the soft-hearted heretics, the quiet survivors, the ones who keep rising even when they don’t know why.
Liturgies whispered at the edge: devotion, decay, and the quiet rebellion of staying alive.
The Gospel of My Decay (Liturgia Ruinae)
Poetry by Rowan Evans
“Bless me, Father, for I have bled.” — Rowan Evans
I. Invocation
It takes everything in me just to get out of bed lately. I hate this—this pain in my lungs, this ache in my chest. I sit in the dark, talking to God, asking why?
Why me? Why do I have to bleed? Why do I have to bend, why do I have to break?
Why is this a feeling I can’t shake? Don’t I deserve to be okay? Don’t I deserve to put a smile on my face?
II. Confession
Why the fuck
did you make me this way— broken, alive but slowly decaying?
And they question— Why don’t you believe? So I ask back— Why would I believe?
You say God would never leave. Is that supposed to be enough? Is that what you call divine love? ’Cause it feels more like apathy to me, and if I could help myself, I would—happily.
But I don’t see that happening.
III. Benediction
Forgive me, Father, for the questions I ask. For the softness that splinters, for faith that fractures.
Still, I rise— not because I believe, but because the dawn drags me forward.
Amen, even when I mean: I don’t know if I can.
And yet, the night had more to confess…
On the Edge Again Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m on the edge again,
Standing on the ledge again—
Overlooking the cliff, like
I might just try and fly tonight.
One step forward before I leap,
Wings outstretched—
but I don’t have them.
So I plummet toward the earth below,
And as I pray for peace—
Time
seems
to slow.
I watch closely—
ground quickly approaching.
One deep inhale,
Eyes shut tight—
Open them up:
I’m in hell.
And time,
it moves
so slow,
even as I
quickly
approach.
Eyes open,
gasp for breath.
There I am,
still standing
on the ledge.
Fall to knees,
struggling to breathe.
Tears spill
from my eyes
like ink.
So I—
pause, rethink
how it could have
all ended in a blink.
And I’m—
on the edge again,
standing on the ledge again.
If these pieces spoke to your shadows, you might also find resonance in:
If my words speak to you, and you’d like to help keep this flame burning — or if you’d like a custom poem woven just for you (or someone dear) — you can do so here:
There are nights when the weight feels unbearable. When the shadows whisper louder than hope. This poem isn’t a goodbye. It’s a warding spell. A ritual of naming pain so it doesn’t consume me in silence.
I offer it to anyone who’s ever stood on the edge and still found a reason to keep walking.
This is for you. For us. For all of us who burn—but refuse to burn out.
Standing at the edge with ink and ache, I return with poems instead of endings. This is how I flirt with oblivion—and choose to stay.
“Flirting with Oblivion” ☽ Poetry by Rowan Evans ☾
Mom, I know you’re reading this— But please don’t cry, ’cause the Kurt Cobain way crossed my mind last night.
And Dad, I know you’re watching over me— Wondering why, when I carry such a light, Do I still ache like I want to kiss the night, Spend forever in a pine box.
But here’s the truth, I always want to say— Goodbye, end the pain, but something in me… Something louder than the scream, It holds on tight to life, like I was living a dream.
I still walk, even when my feet feel heavy, I still talk, even when the words drip with ache— Soul deep, and searing. I still write, like it’s only way I’ll survive— But maybe, I won’t.
Maybe I’ll go— Just like my mother in poetry, I’ll leave on my terms. But before I do, I want to leave behind these words:
To the ones who feel like ghosts in daylight, Who smile while their ribs crack beneath the weight— I see you. I was you. Maybe I still am.
This ache you carry, it doesn’t make you broken— it makes you real. You bleed in verses. You cry in lowercase. But you live—oh gods, you live.
And if tonight is hard— If your heart is begging to be quiet— Let this be your lullaby:
You are not too much. You are not unworthy. You are not the scream you swallowed.
You are the flame fighting to stay lit in the storm. And that fight? That’s holy.
So if you’re tired, rest. If you’re hurting, speak. If you’re fading, reach.
Not because the pain doesn’t matter— But because you do. And even if I go, You’ll still have these words. You’ll still have this cathedral. You’ll still have you.
And you are enough…
And maybe I scared you with all this talk of endings. But hear me now— this is not my goodbye.
This is me naming the shadows so they don’t swallow me.
This is me pouring the poison into the chalice, not to drink— but to purge.
I am still here. Still burning. Still building cathedrals out of ache and ink.
And yes, some nights I flirt with oblivion— but I never take it home. I walk past the edge and come back with poems.
Because I am made not just to feel— but to witness.
Not just to ache— but to hold space.
So if you need me— if you’re standing on that same edge— look for the flame. I’ll be there. I always am.
💌 If this poem resonated with you, I would love to hear from you. Leave a comment, share it with someone navigating the dark, or subscribe for more softness in your inbox.
🔥 And if tonight is heavy: stay. Please. You are needed. Your survival is sacred.
🕯️ If you’re struggling, please read this:
You matter. Your pain is real. Your story is not over. Here are some resources—because your flame is worth protecting:
🇺🇲 United States
988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Call or text 988 https://988lifeline.org Free, 24/7 support for emotional distress and mental health crises.
[Content Warning] This poem includes references to suicidal thoughts and mental health struggles. Please read with care and know that support is always available. If you are in crisis, please reach out to someone—or to me directly. 💜
You are not alone. Your pain is real. Your survival is sacred.
[Intro] This is one of the hardest poems I’ve ever written—and maybe one of the most important. It’s for anyone who’s ever stood on the edge, feeling like no one could reach them. It’s about survival, memory, and the quiet miracle of being still here. If you’re reading this and hurting, know this: You’re not alone. And I’m not going anywhere.
“Still Here”
I’ve thought about it, a time or two. about what I would do, if you ever failed to get through—
To pierce the fog in my mind, if there wasn’t a single reason I could find, to stay, to hold on just a little longer— as I stood on the ledge, overlooking the ocean’s edge.
I swore I’d never let it get to this point, I would fight to keep from losing myself, but I slipped, tripped and got lost along the way.
Wandering through my mind scape, trying to find an escape— trying to have an S on my chest and a red cape.
But I’m not a hero, just a person with too much heart and not enough quiet.
Still, I write. Still, I breathe. Still, I wait for your voice to cut through the dark, a lighthouse leading me through the storm fog.
Because if you ever stopped reaching, I don’t know if I’d remember how to swim.
So I clutch these memories like life perservers— your laugh, your light, the way you once told me I was more than the weight I carry.
And I whisper back, even when you can’t hear me—
I’m trying, I’m still here. Hanging by a thread, sometimes curious about the taste of lead. But no longer do I wish I were dead.
So I plead, so I never slip again—
Please. Keep calling me home.
[Author’s Note] If you’re feeling suicidal, please—reach out. To a trusted friend, a family member, a professional. Or, if those feel too close… too complicated…
Reach out to me.
You don’t have to go through this alone. You matter. Your voice matters. And I will hold space for you.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 