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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: modern poetry

  • Not the Default – A Poem About Perspective, Borders & Questioning Propaganda

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece isn’t anti-anyone. It isn’t even anti-country.

    It’s about perspective.

    Growing up inside any system makes it easy to believe that your experience is the default setting for the world. But no nation is immune to propaganda, and no culture holds a monopoly on truth.

    Not the Default is a reminder — to myself as much as anyone else — to question comfortably inherited narratives, to look beyond borders, and to understand that expanding your worldview isn’t betrayal… it’s growth.

    — Rowan Evans

    A cracked globe in dark space with glowing artificial border lines across its surface.
    “The border isn’t the edge of the world — just the edge of your comfort.”

    Not the Default
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Oh, you sound
    so surprised—
    like you think
    our government
    never lies.

    Like propaganda
    is a foreign concept,
    something they do
    but never us.
    But what do you
    know of China, bruh?

    I’m not trying
    to shatter
    your mind.

    I’m just saying—
    expand
    your world view.
    Look beyond
    the borders.

    See that your life
    is not
    the default.
    Things are different
    all across
    the globe.

    But the sad truth is—
    some of us
    were taught
    to never question
    our own.

    The border isn’t the edge
    of the world—
    just the edge
    of your comfort.

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

  • Sacred Misfits | A K-Pop Inspired Poem About Outsiders, Art, and Identity

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem started as a challenge to myself — a moment of curiosity and play. I wanted to see if I could weave a constellation of K-pop references into a poem without losing sincerity, rhythm, or heart.

    But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about references at all.

    This piece became a quiet dedication to the outsiders, the ones who move differently, create loudly, and refuse to shrink themselves for comfort. It’s about lineage — musical, creative, generational — and about writing for the people who don’t quite fit the mold, but keep building their own anyway.

    This poem is for the misfits, the monsters, the ones finding their voice and stomping forward unapologetically.

    Illustration of a diverse group of artists standing together beneath glowing city lights, symbolizing creativity, rebellion, and belonging.
    For the outsiders, the monsters, and everyone bold enough to carve their own lane.

    Sacred Misfits
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    When I write
    universes are created,
    every stanza
    a BIGBANG.

    It’s no Secret,
    why I write so fast.
    This is real life,
    no special f(x)—
    pen to paper,
    a masterpiece
    in 4Minutes flat.

    I’ve written
    poems to inspire
    women.
    To show them
    they’re all
    Wonder Girls.

    Because I truly believe
    this is a—
    Girls’ Generation.

    I’ve been doing this
    for a long time.
    I’ve been doing this since
    before I was 2NE1.

    Now I write for
    the Stray Kids,
    the sacred misfits—
    and every outcast,
    made to shrink.

    I write for
    the BABYMONSTERs,
    the big stompers—
    and anyone paving
    their own lane.

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

  • Working Toward Us | A Poem About Patience, Love, and Becoming

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece came from that subtle shift — the moment when someone stops being just a presence in your life and starts becoming a direction. It’s about the quiet work that happens behind the scenes, the way you start rearranging your habits, your thoughts, your intentions, not because you’re trying to impress someone, but because you genuinely want to meet them where they are.

    It’s not a confession.
    It’s not a promise.
    It’s an acknowledgment.

    A recognition that connection isn’t built in grand gestures, but in patience, consistency, and the willingness to grow into someone who can hold another person’s trust. This poem is me naming that process — the slow, steady movement toward “us,” whatever shape that eventually takes.

    Two people walking side by side on a quiet city street at sunset, symbolizing patience, trust, and growing connection.
    Sometimes love isn’t a leap — it’s a steady walk in the same direction.

    Working Toward Us
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s strange,
    the way things can change—
    the way a single person
    can make you want to
    rearrange everything.

    Isn’t it strange?

    The way someone can
    sit right there
    on the tip of the
    tongue.

    Isn’t it something?

    When every word
    spoken
    becomes a love token,
    simply because
    it carries a piece of them too.

    And every word written
    takes the shape
    of her silhouette.
    Because when my pen
    hits the page,
    it’s like a brush
    dancing across canvas.

    I try to capture
    the beautiful hues
    of a soul in motion,
    with nothing but ink
    and observation.
    Learning everything I can
    through conversation.
    I want to understand…

    I’m patient.

    But I want you to know,
    I’m working toward us—
    whatever shape that takes,
    I want to be
    somebody
    you can truly trust.
    Somebody
    you can lean on
    when things get
    a little too rough.

    I’m working toward
    you and I, walking
    the same streets.
    You and I, side by side
    enjoying life.

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

  • Not a Need – A Poem About Independence, Intimacy, and Quiet Want

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is about the space between independence and intimacy.
    About wanting without needing, and how that can sometimes feel scarier than either extreme.

    It isn’t a confession or a plea—it’s an acknowledgement.
    Of fear, of feeling and of the quiet hope that choosing someone doesn’t mean losing yourself.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person standing quietly by a window at dusk, bathed in soft light, reflecting on vulnerability and emotional connection.
    Wanting someone doesn’t have to mean losing yourself.

    Not a Need
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Sometimes
    it’s hard for me
    to say what I feel.

    Sometimes
    I just want to
    close my mouth,
    and not let a peep out.

    Sometimes
    I have so much
    I want to say,
    but…

    I’m scared.

    I’m terrified.
    Honestly, I’m overwhelmed.

    Overwhelmed
    by how much
    you make me feel.
    By how much
    I want…

    You.

    It’s not a need,
    I’m just fine on my own.
    But maybe,
    with you,

    it’d be better
    than being alone.

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

  • I Meant It – A Poem About Devotion, Defiance, and Finding Your Voice

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is about devotion without submission, and love without surrendering your voice.
    It’s not about violence or divinity—it’s about resolve.
    About the kind of care that doesn’t beg to be heard, but stands firm and says: this matters.

    I Meant It lives in the space where fear turns into courage, where love doesn’t make you smaller—it makes you louder.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure standing defiantly before glowing, cracked gates in the clouds, symbolizing courage, devotion, and finding one’s voice.
    Love doesn’t always kneel. Sometimes, it stands its ground.

    I Meant It
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Every time I said
    I’d box God for you,
    I meant it.
    If the weight
    doesn’t lift,
    I’ll go ballistic—
    kicking the pearly gates
    off their hinges.

    I’ll walk in,
    ready to stand on business.
    I won’t beg, won’t plead—
    I’ll stand in defiance,
    ready to riot.
    But I won’t take
    the first swing.

    I’ll just make sure
    they know,
    it’s you—
    I’m doing this for.

    Because,
    the truth is—

    You make me brave,
    in ways
    I didn’t know
    I could be.

    And—
    it’s because of you
    my voice sings now.
    Because of you,
    I can be loud.
    I can stand
    and say,
    what I mean now.

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

  • Back to Darkseid — A Poem About Chaos, Identity, and the Mind

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem started as play.

    I wasn’t trying to be deep or careful — I was letting my brain sprint, letting pop culture, mythology, and intrusive thoughts collide on the page. Comics, villains, alter egos, masks — all the familiar metaphors we use when our minds feel too loud to live in quietly.

    What surprised me wasn’t the darkness, but the balance. This isn’t a descent — it’s a return with awareness. Standing in the light doesn’t mean pretending the shadows don’t exist. It means no longer fearing them.

    This is what it feels like when poetry stops being a tool and starts being a force — when the ink takes over, and you let it.

    Surreal illustration of a figure in shadow with ink tendrils rising up their spine, symbolizing chaos, identity, and creative obsession.
    Where chaos, identity, and ink collide.

    Back to Darkseid
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I walk in,
    ready to rock
    like a shock
    to the system.

    Watch me
    ghost ride the whip,
    hit you with the
    penance stare.

    Watch as you become
    hyper aware
    of every misdeed,
    and every sin seeps
    into the veins.

    It circulates
    until it hits
    the brain.

    Lights out.

    Silence.

    My noggin’s
    an asylum,
    I’m sick in the head.
    Coin flip of fate,
    I’m two-faced
    with my joker’s thoughts.

    I’m a dark knight,
    on a dark night—
    fighting the monsters
    that my mind creates.

    Don’t try to figure me out.
    I’m an enigma, a riddle
    with no answer.

    A twisted harlequin
    in a garden
    made by Ivy.
    Each petal unfurls,
    guiding—
    leading me back
    from the edge.

    Now I’m standing in the light,
    back to Darkseid—
    I no longer fear
    Apocalypse.

    Watch my ink
    twist into tendrils.
    Watch as they
    wrap around,
    and creep up
    my spine like venom.
    Watch as poetry
    slowly,
    takes over
    my mind.

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

  • Etched in Memory | A Poem About Restraint, Truth, and the Weight of Words

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem came from the space between impulse and consequence—the moment when truth is sharp enough to wound, and restraint becomes a form of survival. Etched in Memory is about knowing exactly how much damage your words can do, and choosing silence not because you are wrong, but because you are precise.

    Some of us learn early that a look can say too much, that honesty—when fully unleashed—doesn’t fade. It marks. It lingers. It becomes permanent.

    This piece is a quiet confession of power held back, of violence softened into poetry, of restraint learned the hard way. Not because the truth wasn’t there—but because it would have lasted.

    — Rowan Evans

    A shadowed figure looking away as dark ink bleeds from their eyes, symbolizing restraint, silence, and words etched into memory.
    Some truths don’t need to be spoken to be permanent.

    Etched in Memory
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    My eyes learned restraint—
    before my mouth ever did.
    So I wouldn’t betray myself
    when I talked my shit.

    It was all—
    facts (fax), no printer.
    I did not
    speak a lie.

    But I
    would try
    not to speak at all.

    Because my eyes
    learned restraint—
    before my mouth ever did.

    Yet, they would
    always
    push me.

    Until…

    I would
    poetically
    dissect them—

    methodically
    dismember,
    until they
    remember.
    My words
    etched
    in memory.

    But my eyes
    learned restraint—
    before my mouth ever did.

    So I look away…

    to stop this shit.

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

  • Can You Sit With Yourself? | A Poem About Self-Confrontation and Inner Truth

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    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

    A solitary person sitting quietly in a dim room, symbolizing self-reflection and inner confrontation.
    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?

    Fight the urge
    to turn,
    to run.

    Could you stay…

    or would you be
    troubled
    enough
    to leave?

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

  • I Don’t Need You (I Actually Don’t Need You Version) | Radical Autonomy Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This version removes the turn entirely. There is no reaching, no choosing, no ache dressed up as desire. It is a statement of self-sufficiency, not as armor, but as fact.
    This poem exists for moments when autonomy is the truth—and that truth needs no softening.

    Same poem.
    No turn this time.

    — Rowan Evans

    Solitary figure standing calmly in soft light, symbolizing emotional independence, self‑sufficiency, and quiet strength.
    “I arrived here intact—assembled by my own hands.”
    — Rowan Evans, I Don’t Need You (I Actually Don’t Need You Version)

    I Don’t Need You
    (I Actually Don’t Need You Version)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I don’t need you.
    I can breathe on my own—
    lungs have done it for decades
    without asking permission.

    I don’t need you.
    I can sleep alone,
    learn the shape of empty sheets,
    make peace with the cold side of the bed.

    I don’t need you
    to make me whole.
    I arrived here intact—
    scarred, yes,
    but assembled by my own hands.

    I don’t need your voice
    to steady me,
    your name
    to keep the dark from biting.
    I’ve survived worse silences
    than your absence.

    I don’t need you
    to save me.
    I am not drowning.
    I am not broken.
    I am not waiting
    to be rescued.

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

    [I Don’t Need You] – Original
    A poem about choosing love from a place of wholeness—celebrating independence, intimacy, and the power of saying “I don’t need you, but I want you.”

    [I Don’t Need You] – Dangerous
    “I don’t need you. I breathe. I rise, unbroken, unbent. Yet still, I choose you—dangerous, alive, and all in.” A fiery meditation on independence, desire, and choosing love from a place of strength.

  • How You Take Your Silence | A Poem About Quiet, Intimacy, and What We Hide

    Rowan Evans

    I’m less interested in what people show the world
    than in what they carry when no one is asking.

    I’ve learned that silence has weight.

    Soft light filtering through sheer curtains in a quiet room, creating a calm and intimate atmosphere
    Silence has its own weight.

    How You Take Your Silence
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I want to go beneath the surface—
    to see the substance,
    where true beauty lives.

    Don’t tell me how you take your coffee:
    tell me how you take your silence.

    I want to see the things
    you’ve been taught to hide:
    the tremor beneath your laughter,
    the cracks in the walls
    where light leaks through,
    the fingerprints of your fears
    pressed into the corners of your mind.

    The corners where your smile falters,
    the shadows that dance behind your eyes,
    the way your hands betray the calm
    you wear like armor.

    I want to trace the maps
    of the roads you walked alone,
    I want to know the weight
    of your quiet—

    I want to see how it shaped you,
    how it made you
    the whole of you.

    Author’s Note

    Silence has its own language.
    I’m still learning how to listen.

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