mental health writing – Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

There’s a kind of silence that isn’t peaceful.

It isn’t chosen.

It’s something you fall into—slow at first, then all at once. A place where thoughts don’t stop, but somehow words disappear.

This piece came from that feeling.

From trying to speak and finding nothing there. From sinking into your own mind, adjusting to the pressure, and realizing that even when the weight lifts… something hasn’t fully returned.

Sometimes it’s not about being overwhelmed.

Sometimes it’s about becoming too used to the quiet.

— Rowan Evans

Person sitting underwater among shipwrecks with light filtering from the surface, symbolizing silence and emotional depth — *Even when you can breathe again… the silence can stay.*

Still Can’t Speak
Poetry by Rowan Evans

Silence.

I’ve been sitting in silence,
slipping into thoughts
like quicksand.

I panic—
and sink faster.

I open my mouth,
but no sound comes out,
words lost in the abyss
of endless thought.

Descending.

Diving deeper
into the unknown
far below,
waves crash above—

I open my mouth again,
take water into my lungs.

Silence.

Far below the waves.

Looking up,
I see the sun filter
through the surface—
light displaced,
scattered rays.

Without a sound,
I’m never found.

So there,
on the bottom,
among the wreckage
of ships long forgotten—

I sit with silence,
waiting for the end.

I can feel
the pressure build,
my bones
growing weak.

I feel like I’m adapting,
or something worse
is happening.

The pressure lessens—
no lesson,
something is amiss.

I shouldn’t be
so used to this.

The waves recede,
I can breathe—

and yet…

I still can’t speak.

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

Author’s Note

This piece started with a simple idea—listening to something you’re told to ignore.

But the more I sat with it, the less it felt like something external.

There’s a voice you develop after spending enough time with your own thoughts. One that understands where you’ve been, what you’ve survived, and what you’ve learned to carry.

It doesn’t filter itself the way you do.

It doesn’t soften the truth.

And that’s what makes it uncomfortable.

We’re taught to silence that voice. To treat it like something separate, something dangerous.

But sometimes, it’s not the enemy.

Sometimes, it’s just you—without hesitation.

— Rowan Evans

Person writing in dim light with a shadow reflection symbolizing inner thoughts and darker self — *Some voices don’t lie. That’s why they’re hard to hear.*

When the Devil Speaks, I Listen
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I listen—
when the devil talks,
because he knows
the paths I’ve walked.

I’ve slept
where shadows crept,
made my bed in crypts.

I’ve walked through rooms
that felt like tombs—
bled ink on pages,
translated hurt
into words.

I listen
when the devil talks,

because I recognize
he’s walked
the same paths I’ve walked.

He’s seen the places
I’ve laid my head,
the crypts
I made home.

He’s read the pages—
stained
with crimson ink.

So yes—
I listen,

because I recognize
the voice
sounds like mine—
just older,
and less afraid to say it.

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

Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: mental health writing

Still Can’t Speak – A Poem About Silence, Anxiety, and Emotional Suppression

When the Devil Speaks, I Listen – A Poem About Inner Voice and Self-Reflection