Sometimes absence isn’t just being alone. Sometimes it feels like having no body at all.
Nobody² (No Body) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m a nobody,
I’ve got nobody.
I’m just a ghost—
I’ve got no body.
[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.
[Conductor] A dark, intimate poem about the strange power words can have over the reader—where rhythm, rhyme, and line breaks become instruments capable of reaching beyond the page.
Others arrive already carrying the scent of decay.
These two minimalist pieces were written as companions—two sides of the same creative process. One looks toward cultivation, growth, and the strange beauty of watching an idea become something tangible. The other looks toward the thoughts that come darker, older, or already beginning to rot.
Together, Rose and Ruin sit in the same garden.
One grows.
One decays.
Both become poetry.
— Rowan Evans
Rose & Ruin Poems by Rowan Evans
Somewhere between ink and imagination, the garden begins to bloom.
Rose Poetry by Rowan Evans
I plant a seed and water it,
creativity and ink, fertilizing it—
watching masterpieces bloom
in a garden of thoughts.
Even the thoughts that rot can still become something worth writing.
Ruin Poetry by Rowan Evans
I use ’em—
before the thoughts rot,
but I’m a gothic poet—
I’ll still use the rotten thoughts,
I see the world through ’em.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Conductor] A dark, intimate poem about the strange power words can have over the reader—where rhythm, rhyme, and line breaks become instruments capable of reaching beyond the page.
[The Answer Is (Yes)] What kind of writer am I? Mythmaker, confessor, comedian, philosopher, dream-architect, romantic, storyteller, and diss-poet. This self-reflective poem explores the impossibility of fitting creativity into a single category—and embraces every version of the truth a pen can touch.
[Finish What You Started] A dark introspective poem about confronting the past, carrying old versions of yourself, and realizing that the only way forward is through the fire.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 