Sometimes the loudest hater in the room is the one you brought with you.
Walk-A-Block in Flames started with the idea of imaginary critics—the voices that somehow manage to find fault with everything you do, even when nobody else is actually saying a damn thing. Naturally, my brain decided the appropriate response was to turn that internal conflict into a ridiculous walk around the block, throw in some wordplay, and see how many times I could make the joke work before the poem eventually turned the joke back on me.
Because beneath all the flames, bravado, and fake enemies, there’s a much simpler realization:
Sometimes the person I’m arguing with is me.
And honestly?
That’s probably the funniest part.
— Rowan Evans
Plot twist: the haters were imaginary, and unfortunately, they had my voice.
Walk-A-Block in Flames Poetry by Rowan Evans
They tell me,
these imaginary haters,
that I’ve fuckin’ created—
they live inside my head,
feeding on my self-doubt—
obsessed with burning the self-down.
They make me take a walk,
a walk around a block
and it’s fucking hot—
I guess you could say,
these imaginary haters made me,
Waka Flocka Flame.
Wait—
I meant to say—
these haters made me
Walk-A-Block In Flames.
Honestly though,
I don’t know
what the fuck
they hate me for—
Is it because my wrist froze?
Nope, I’m broke—
Because I’m the best to ever do it?
Nope, that’s a joke—
Is it because they say
the things I think about me?
Couldn’t be—
because I think I’m great,
and these haters are fake.
I mean literally fake,
figments—
they don’t exist,
it’s just me in this bitch.
Sometimes “I don’t give a fuck” isn’t really apathy. Sometimes it’s exhaustion, overextension, or finally realizing that not everything deserves a piece of you.
The Fucks I Give takes that idea and turns it into a ridiculous little accounting problem. If I’ve been handing out fucks like they’re an unlimited resource, eventually I’m going to have to audit the books, collect the outstanding balance, and start charging interest.
Underneath the jokes and profanity is something I’m actually pretty serious about: learning to be selective with what gets my attention, my energy, my emotions, and my time.
Because giving a fuck can be an act of love.
So can taking your fucks back.
— Rowan Evans
Apparently, my fucks weren’t free. I’m just finally collecting the outstanding balance.
The Fucks I Give Poetry by Rowan Evans
They said I’m too apathetic,
actin’ like nothing matters,
and it’s pathetic—
they want me to give a fuck,
but shit, I misplaced my bag of fucks—
so I’ve got no fucks to give.
Yeah, I’ll go through
and take all my fucks back—
I’ll walk right up and knock, like—
I’m here to collect my fucks,
and extra fucks too—
it’s a fucking tax,
and there is interest, dude.
You think fucks are endless.
No, I’ve got to be pickier—
because for a minute there,
it was—
fuck everything
and that’s probably
what they’re angry for.
It was fuck this and fuck that—
I was running out of fucks fast.
Some thoughts don’t arrive quietly. They repeat, build momentum, and turn themselves into a soundtrack you never asked to hear.
The Strings Won’t Stop takes that experience and gives it a physical sound: violins playing somewhere inside an empty room, each note feeding the fear and keeping the loop alive. The speaker isn’t asking for a beautiful song—they’re asking for silence, for one interruption in the pattern, one change in tempo that might finally give the mind somewhere else to go.
Sometimes the hardest part isn’t finding the words.
It’s getting the strings to stop playing them.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the mind doesn’t need another song. It needs the strings to stop.
The Strings Won’t Stop Poetry by Rowan Evans
I sit in an empty room,
listening to the haunting cry
of violins—
I’m just longing
for silence—
but the strings
sing for me—
they sing a song
I don’t want to hear,
it amplifies the fear—
it makes me wonder,
what am I doing here?
But they don’t stop—
the strings sing
and they watch—
I sit in the corner,
and I rock—
back and forth,
listening for the chorus,
or something to break
the loop—
a tempo switch,
a cadence change—
something,
anything
to rearrange
the thoughts in my brain.
Journey into the Hexverse
[A Person First] A poem about the difference between loving a woman and loving the role someone expects her to play—because partnership requires respect, autonomy, and room to remain a person first.
[Half a Picture] What happens when someone falls in love with the person they discover through your poetry? Half a Picture explores the strange intimacy between writer and reader—and the distance between seeing someone’s mind through their words and truly knowing the whole person.
[If You Want to Go] When conversations become nothing more than repeated excuses, sometimes the only answer left is to stop pretending. A raw, direct poem about emotional exhaustion, frustration, and the difficult freedom of letting someone walk away.
Kintsugi Sunrise (Remix) returns to a piece I first wrote in January 2024—a poem born from a mind trying to survive its own cracks. The original captured the feeling from inside the storm. This version comes back to the same landscape with a little more distance, a little more clarity, and a different relationship with the person standing among the broken pieces.
The cracks are still part of the picture. So is the gold.
But this time, the sunrise feels less like something I am desperately waiting for and more like something I have finally learned to recognize.
The original was about trying to become whole.
The remix is about realizing I was already becoming something new.
— Rowan Evans
The cracks remained. I just learned how to fill them with gold and face the sunrise.
Kintsugi Sunrise (Remix) Poetry by Rowan Evans
Apologies whispered—
I had to disappear for a while,
retreat inside my mind,
try to rewire—
cause I was feeling broken,
shattered.
There were cracks in my psyche,
twisting thoughts inside me—
telling me I’m worthless—
every night I’d drift
into a hell scape—
stuck in my mind’s cage.
So I’d sit inside my mind,
filling cracks with gold—
finding beauty in the pain,
performing kintsugi on my brain.
And the pain eased,
clouds lifted—
something shifted—
no more skies of grey.
Finally, I could sit and watch
the sun rise on a new day—
my outlook had changed.
Now I look to the future—
with hope.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Half a Picture] What happens when someone falls in love with the person they discover through your poetry? Half a Picture explores the strange intimacy between writer and reader—and the distance between seeing someone’s mind through their words and truly knowing the whole person.
[For the Youth (Remix)] A 2026 remix of Rowan Evans’s original 2024 poem, encouraging young people to embrace their truth, recognize their worth, raise their voices, and become the light they want to see in the world.
[All for Me] When thunder becomes applause, lightning turns into paparazzi, and rain rolls out a flooded red carpet, one poet starts wondering whether nature’s celebration has gone a little too far.
The Sacred Timeline is a map of how my relationship with the pen has changed over nearly three decades of my life.
I started with stories about worlds that already existed—Dragon Ball Z, Power Rangers, Pokémon—and slowly began building worlds of my own. Then the pen became a way to learn cadence, translate music, hide things I couldn’t say aloud, survive periods when writing itself became difficult, and eventually turn pain into something crafted enough to share.
Every era left something behind: the storyteller, the songwriter, the secret keeper, the gothic romantic, the heretic, the battle poet, the confessor, the mythmaker. Some symbols came and stayed. Some meanings changed. Some questions took decades to become clear enough to write down.
And the timeline is still moving.
At thirty-six, I don’t consider the pen mastered so much as understood differently. Writing is still an experiment. The boundaries keep moving. The imagery keeps evolving. The person holding the pen keeps changing.
Maybe that’s the most sacred part of the timeline: the ink stayed, but I didn’t.
— Rowan Evans
Thirty-six years, countless pages, one pen—and an identity still being written.
The Sacred Timeline Poetry by Rowan Evans
I picked up a pen for the first time at seven, I was just writing stories then— Dragonball Z, Power Rangers and Pokémon… that’s what I wrote about way back when—
it was much lighter out, the sun had yet to meet the clouds— I was a natural storyteller, a real lore keeper, weaving lore before I even knew what lore meant. It was like this for years, I created my own space in worlds provided by minds much older than mine.
Then at ten—I switched what the pen meant to me, my creativity shifted mentally— no longer was I just a storyteller, I was letting music be the teacher now. Translating thoughts to song, at least the words of it— I was writing to worship something. Something that in six short years, I would begin to question—
but the years between ten and then—were spent, using the pen to learn cadence. I was trying to learn to perform on the page— I couldn’t do it in body, but I could turn a notebook to a stage.
At twelve things began to shift again, but with me, not with the pen— I still felt the sun, I still saws its rays, but I also saw more cloudy days— that year was hard for me, I couldn’t talk about it with clarity— most people would react like, “you’re scaring me”— so I stopped talking about it really, I closed my lips, but still let the ink spill— the page became a secret keeper, keeping the secrets this storyteller was too afraid to say out loud.
Thirteen the skies went dark— this is when life really got hard. At the beginning of the year, it’s like the ink in my pen had begun to dry— I don’t know what was wrong, but I couldn’t write. I tried and I tried— pages ripped from notebooks, balled up and scattered.
No songs, no stories— I had lost interest in things that I used to find most interesting. Parents took me to the doctor, and the doctor said—
“This kid’s depressed— and anxious too, I’ll write a prescription that should do. A referral for therapy, they’ll get them to talk— they’ll find out what’s wrong.”
A week would go by— giving the medicine a try, it takes time— it has to build up in your system. In the meantime, here’s a therapist, someone to talk to— they’ll listen to your problems, they’ll help you.
And they did—a little bit, they got me to talk a little bit too. But still they saw I was holding back— so they recommended journaling, but that felt tedious and boring. I needed to find a way to make it play— bring a little joy to it, even if falsified.
I made it a game to translate my pain— how many ways could I say everything? Is it possible to flip it? Maybe change the script and shift the meaning? These were the questions I began to ask— even when my ink ran in all black—
back when my heart was all cracks, before I learned how to use the gold to patch— I struggled through, just writing purely what I felt— thirteen, fourteen and fifteen, often felt like hell.
Sixteen, I hit my stride— not in life but with a pen, things were hard still, but now I could translate with skill. Not much, if we’re being honest— just enough to keep the pain beautiful, in case someone else saw it—
Seventeen, I did it again— reinvented myself with the pen, more gothic in my intentions. Maybe I finally read Poe, who knows— but ravens became a part of my soul.
At eighteen, I went from church steeples and church people to writing cathedrals for outcasts and heretics— we hadn’t yet, become luminous. Shadows and lace, velvet and venom— but I also opened my eyes more, became more aware of the world around— outside the borders I’m confined in.
At twenty, I started to write for people more—to uplift, and let them know they’re not alone— whatever they were going through, there was somebody with them. Even from a distance—
I had friends across seas, in places with palm trees— and in places with Kangaroos, even scarier—Emu.
I don’t know what that means in this piece—but it’s true, so do with that, what you’re going to do.
At twenty-two, I got more serious about the ink— I started to write everything. Every thought and every half-formed idea— I just put it on a page, my brain would not be a cage.
Then came twenty-five, the lowest point in my life— it wasn’t a sudden crash, but a slow rot— it bled through every thought, a feeling I couldn’t translate, familiar but different, heavier somehow— so the ink slowed to a drip, I started to let thoughts slip.
Twenty-six, I got serious again— more aggressive with the time spent, my pieces became more crafted and the ink was shaped with intention. Ravens, the moon, and roses too— the symbols I began to use.
I ascend on the back of raven wings— the silver light of the moon pierced the canopy—rose petals drift in the shifting currents of the wind. Everything connects, pay more attention and you’ll become more aware—
At thirty— I really began to question everything— who I was, who I am, who I want to be— and that’s still a question I’m working on answering. But it went deeper than that— I was questioning who I was in a deeper sense, like had I been a façade in some sense. Was I playing the role I was assigned, or being true to who I thought I was becoming?
This became a recurring theme in my poetry— it’s an odd thing to discover so late in life, that the person you thought you were— isn’t who you’re supposed to be. So I chased answers in ink to questions I couldn’t fully ask yet.
There were two more years of this— and I’m still not finished.
Thirty-three hit with another shift— I mixed the light with the shadow, it was Easter in the cathedral— pastel colors lit up the stained glass. My imagery began to shift shades— roses in all colors, pastel hues, but the thorns were still there too. So even my softness had bite—
and it evolved more, by thirty-four— more teeth but more softness too. Brighter hues and deeper shadows— this is when I learned, you can’t have one without the other.
The shadow needs the light to cast— and you need the shade to dim the shine, because too much shine— you might go blind.
Then came thirty-five— the modern era, the current phase, one year before the current day— and I know this won’t age well, it’s too time specific—
Finally, we’ve reached thirty-six, and I feel like I’ve mastered this— but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped learning, because every day is an experiment— really, it’s all about the experience— just learning new things and pushing it, finding where the boundary is and bending it, you gotta realize— you can’t always give a shit, who cares what they think— it’s your ink—shape it how you see fit.
Journey into the Hexverse
[The Metaphor Machine] A poem that takes apart its own machinery as it runs—breaking lines, breaking thoughts, and following metaphors from moonlight to tides, oceans, shorelines, and city streets.
[Exhibit A (The Evidence)] A quick-witted, unapologetically playful poem about writing fast, crossing lines, roasting the competition, and letting rhythm do the talking.
[Welcome to the Hexverse] Step into the Hexverse—a poetic world where mythmaking, humor, rage, creativity, and confession collide, and darkness becomes something that can be reshaped into art.
Rain has a strange way of making the world feel quieter.
Sometimes that quiet gives the mind room to speak.
And sometimes the mind doesn’t whisper.
Louder Than the Rain is a small piece about one of those moments—when everything outside is making noise, yet somehow the loudest thing in the room is what’s happening inside your own head.
So listen closely.
— Rowan Evans
When the world gets quiet, sometimes the thoughts get louder.
Louder Than the Rain Poetry by Rowan Evans
I sat listening to the rainfall,
watching it hit and splash upon the ground—
the way my tears fell,
I was surrounded, but it felt like nobody was around.
I was alone in a packed house—
why was the silence so fucking…
my thoughts were loud,
they were drowning my thoughts out.
I was so damn nervous,
hands in my hair, I was pulling it—
just wanted to scream and shout,
it was the only way to get my feelings out.
But I couldn’t shout loud, so I rode it out—
translated the pain to the page.
Yeah, I wrote it out…
Journey into the Hexverse
[My Nightmare] A poem about the nightmare of loving someone across distance, seeing the world from different perspectives, and holding onto the hope that the cracks can still be repaired—and that someday two separate shores might become one.
[Nobody² (No Body)] A minimalist poem playing with the double meaning of “nobody”—exploring loneliness, isolation, absence, and the feeling of becoming a ghost within your own life.
[Rose & Ruin] Two minimalist poems exploring the opposing forces within creativity: the thoughts we cultivate into something beautiful and the darker thoughts we transform before they have a chance to decay.
This poem began with frustration, but it didn’t stay there.
Sometimes it’s easy to blame circumstances for feeling stuck, especially when life starts to feel like the same day repeating itself. While writing this piece, I realized something uncomfortable: the biggest obstacle in front of me wasn’t where I lived or what I lacked—it was my own hesitation.
That realization isn’t meant as self-punishment. It’s an invitation to look honestly at fear. Growth often means stepping into uncertainty, and that’s rarely comfortable. The “storm” in this poem isn’t destruction—it’s transformation waiting to happen.
Sometimes the hardest person to convince to move forward is yourself.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the storm isn’t waiting on the horizon.
Sometimes it’s waiting inside us—asking us to finally move.
Maybe the Storm Is Me Poetry by Rowan Evans
Every day I pray for change,
and every day is just the same.
I go to bed in America,
wake up in America—
but that’s my fault I guess,
I haven’t pushed myself enough.
So really,
it’s my fault I’m stuck.
Damn—
that sucks.
What a realization to have,
that really makes me mad—
and honestly…
kind of sad.
I’m stuck and it’s my fault,
when I’m sitting on fire in the vault.
Maybe that’s the worst part—
knowing I’m built for more
than this loop I keep living.
Knowing I’ve got heat
in my hands,
ideas that burn holes
through the page,
dreams loud enough
to shake the dust off my life…
Yet—
I keep waking up
in the same place,
I swore I’d outgrown.
And maybe that’s why
the anger hits so hard—
because I can feel the future
pressing against the walls,
like it’s waiting for me
to finally stop hesitating
and let myself out.
I keep talking about change
like it’s a storm on the horizon,
but maybe the storm is me—
all this pressure,
all this potential,
all this fire I keep storing
instead of using.
Maybe I’m not stuck
because I’m weak—
maybe I’m stuck
because I’m scared
of what happens
when I finally move.
Journey with the Hexverse…
[Through My View] No two people experience the world the same way. Through My View is a reflective free verse poem exploring perspective, imagination, and the impossibility of fully seeing through another person’s eyes.
[More Afraid Than the Ink] Some confessions are easy to write but impossible to speak. More Afraid Than the Ink explores fear, dreams, recurring symbols, and the quiet realization that the page has always been braver than the poet.
[Just Human] Just Human is a reflective free verse poem about seeing people before borders, choosing empathy over division, and finding home in our shared humanity rather than on a map.
[Chemical X] Chemical X explores the rapid, associative way one creative mind moves—from cartoons to sports, comic books to music—revealing that inspiration isn’t linear, but a collision of memory, humor, rhythm, and intuition.
[Where Music Becomes Weather] Some songs feel like storms. Others feel like shelter. Where Music Becomes Weather explores how music shapes emotion, memory, and the landscapes we carry within us.
This one began with a question I wasn’t entirely prepared to answer:
Who am I without writing?
I’ve spent more than two decades translating my inner world into poetry. Over time, writing stopped feeling like something I do and started feeling like the place where I exist most completely.
That’s a strange realization.
Because poetry isn’t simply expression for me—it’s construction.
Every poem is assembled from fragments: memories, emotions, images, conversations, dreams, fears, humor, hope. I rarely invent from nothing. I gather pieces of lived experience and stitch them together until they begin breathing on their own.
That’s where the title comes from.
Victor Frankenstein wasn’t remembered because he created life.
He was remembered because he assembled it.
That’s often what writing feels like to me.
I gather disconnected thoughts, broken emotions, recurring symbols, and scattered moments, then bind them together until they become something capable of standing on its own.
The result isn’t always comfortable.
Sometimes it’s beautiful.
Sometimes it’s monstrous.
Most often…
it’s simply honest.
— Rowan Evans
“Every poem begins as fragments—thoughts, memories, emotions, and images—stitched together until they learn how to breathe.”
Victor Frankenstein of Rhythm and Rhyme Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ll be honest—
I don’t know who I am
without this,
without the ink to bleed—
what does my life even mean?
I know it means something—
but I’ve lost sight of it.
Because I’m like a god here—
I control the shape
the ink takes
and decide what it makes.
I create every piece
in my image.
I write universes into existence—
populate them with ghosts,
lovers, gods and monsters.
And every version of myself
I couldn’t survive as alone.
I translate my mental health
from the inside, no distance.
I take my mind
translate it into lines
and images—
stitch them together
as metaphors—
Victor Frankenstein
of rhythm, rhyme and imagery.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Pointing Me Home] The final poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind trilogy explores dreams, hope, and belonging. Through moonlight, ocean tides, and quiet conversation, Pointing Me Home reflects on carrying hope long before reaching the place you call home.
[Caller ID: Destiny] Sometimes the places we visit in our dreams feel more like home than the places we wake up in. Caller ID: Destiny explores longing, belonging, and the quiet feeling that life is calling you toward somewhere new.
[Monster Theology] What if the monsters under the bed weren’t monsters at all? Monster Theology explores difference, belonging, and the human tendency to fear what we don’t understand through a conversation with the creatures we’ve spent our lives imagining.
[Frankenstein’s Monster (and I’m the Doctor)] Some poems are built to make a point. Others are built to reveal the mechanism. Frankenstein’s Monster (and I’m the Doctor) explores associative thinking, creative chaos, and the strange process of stitching disconnected ideas into something alive.
[I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise] Love has never come easily to me. This poem explores the fear, vulnerability, and quiet courage required to stay emotionally present when connection begins to matter deeply. “I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise” is about choosing love despite the risk of heartbreak—and promising to remain long enough to witness someone fully.
I’ve always been fascinated by the spaces between things.
Between sleeping and waking.
Between leaving and arriving.
Between being understood and merely being seen.
The famous thought experiment gave me a metaphor, but the poem isn’t really about quantum mechanics.
It’s about perception.
There are moments when I feel as though I exist in two places at once.
One version of me is moving through the ordinary world.
The other exists inside the minds of the people who know me, read my work, remember me, or think about me.
Neither version is false.
They’re simply different ways of existing.
I think writers become especially aware of this.
Our words continue living in places we’ll never visit, meeting people we’ll never meet.
A poem can be read years after it’s written.
A thought can continue existing long after the thinker has moved on.
That creates a strange feeling.
Part of you is always somewhere else.
The final lines carry the emotional truth of the piece.
Not that I cease to exist when no one is looking.
Only that being perceived is one of the ways we feel most alive.
Maybe that’s true for all of us.
Maybe every human being exists in more than one state at once.
The self we know.
And the self that lives in someone else’s memory.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes existence feels less like certainty and more like possibility.
Schrödinger’s Person Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m drifting somewhere
in the in-between—
space is liminal here.
This is where people go
to disappear—
you must exist
with the fear.
It’s like I’m here
but I’m not—
I’m somewhere else too.
It’s like I exist—
in two states
at the same time.
I am Schrödinger’s Person.
You see—
that sounds more dramatic
than it is,
I just mean—
when you perceive me
is when I live.
Not that I don’t
without you—
because I do,
but I really don’t want to.
You see—
the two states
I exist in,
here…
and there.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Returning to My Bones] Some dreams fade the moment we wake. Others leave behind emotions that linger long after reality returns. Returning to My Bones explores the strange grief of leaving a dream that felt real enough to matter.
[Before My Feet Touch the Floor] What happens when your dreams feel more real than your waking life? Before My Feet Touch the Floor explores the strange grief of waking up, the lingering memory of dream selves, and the quiet question of which version of us is truly real.
[Just Beyond Waking] A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.
[The Needle Doesn’t Point North] “The Needle Doesn’t Point North” is a deeply personal free verse poem about displacement, identity, and spending a lifetime feeling emotionally disconnected from the place you were born while being drawn toward distant shores.
[The Streets I Walk When I Sleep] “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.
[Separate Timelines] “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.
A single figure standing alone, staring into the distance like the opening shot of a film.
At first, the poem exists entirely outside the body. The speaker is observed rather than understood. We see the wind. The trees. The dirt beneath their feet. We hear a voice describing loneliness from a distance.
Then the question arrives:
“Is that the truth or the depression talking?”
For me, that’s the moment the camera moves.
The poem stops observing the speaker and starts inhabiting them.
Everything before that question is external.
Everything after it is internal.
The scenery gives way to self-examination. The loneliness becomes less important than the act of interrogating it. The poem begins pulling apart its own construction, examining how emotions become images and how images eventually become language.
In many ways, this piece accidentally became a poem about my entire creative process.
I’ve spent twenty-three years translating feelings into words.
Not just the dramatic emotions. Not just love, grief, or heartbreak.
Everything.
The strange moments. The passing thoughts. The questions that linger longer than they should.
The title came from that realization.
Because that’s what poetry has always felt like to me.
Translation.
An emotion enters one side of the mind.
An image emerges from the other.
And somewhere in between, a poem happens.
— Rowan Evans
Every poem begins as a feeling before it becomes a language.
Translating What I Feel Poetry by Rowan Evans
I stand, staring into the distance,
alone in this instance—
it’s just me and the breeze,
running through the trees.
I can feel cold dirt and stone
beneath my feet.
Wind brushes skin,
feather-light
like finger tips—
it reminds me
of how alone I am.
Is that the truth
or the depression talking?
Because sometimes
I feel alone
when there are people
around me.
That last stanza
moved like the tide.
A long line—
followed by one shorter,
then longer again.
Even when I don’t say it,
the ocean imagery arrives.
I don’t even have to try—
it just pours out of me,
like a dam breaking.
Everything held back,
rushes forth as the pen
hits the page.
You get the opening lines,
that’s where the truth slips.
Mid-stanza
is where the truth sits.
Then one or two lines
to really make the truth hit.
You see—
this is the creative side of me.
I feel something then translate it
inside of me,
from data to image
then I spit it in ink on the page.
I’ve spent 23 years
translating what I feel—
love, loneliness and rage…
happiness and pain.
Two sides of the coin,
they’re different
but the same.
So there I stood…
staring into the distance,
unsure if I was alone in that instance—
it was just me and the thoughts
running through my mind.
Slowly being translated
into poetic lines.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Where Music Becomes Weather] Some songs feel like storms. Others feel like shelter. Where Music Becomes Weather explores how music shapes emotion, memory, and the landscapes we carry within us.
[Returning to My Bones] Some dreams fade the moment we wake. Others leave behind emotions that linger long after reality returns. Returning to My Bones explores the strange grief of leaving a dream that felt real enough to matter.
[Recognizes Home] A free-verse poem exploring the difference between love as dependency and love as choice. It challenges the idea that love must be need-based, instead centering the quiet strength of choosing someone while still remaining whole on your own.
