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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: modern poetry

  • Fragile Pulse — A Poem About Finding Humanity Beneath the Machinery | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Fragile Pulse came from watching the world move on autopilot—how easily people slip into routines, expectations, and identities that aren’t truly their own. It’s a poem about alienation, yes, but also about the quiet, stubborn spark that still lives beneath all that machinery.

    This piece is my reminder that even in places that feel lifeless or mechanical, there are moments of real humanity—small flickers of authenticity that reach back when we reach out. It’s about connection in a world that often forgets how to feel, and about what it means to notice the spark in someone who thought theirs had gone out.

    A fragile pulse is still a pulse. And sometimes, that’s enough to change everything.

    Illustration of a single glowing human figure surrounded by robotic, mechanical figures moving in a cold, dystopian cityscape.
    A fragile spark in a mechanical world — the pulse that refuses to fade.

    Fragile Pulse
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Oh, you’re here?

    Do you hear that?

    Listen—
    the hum of motors,
    the whir of gears.
    You see a land of people;
    I see a land of robots—
    not thinking,
    only following programs.

    They walk past you,
    faces blank,
    eyes fixed,
    hands moving in repetition,
    hearts forgotten in the chest,
    souls traded for schedules.

    And I watch—
    not with hope,
    not with judgment,
    but with quiet fascination
    at how easily the mind bends
    when freedom is a stranger.

    Do you hear it too?
    The faint pulse beneath the circuits,
    the tiny spark of something
    that refuses to be programmed.
    It’s fragile—
    like a candle in a storm,
    but it exists.
    I can feel it,
    even if the rest cannot.

    I reach out—
    not with force,
    not with commands,
    but with a touch gentle enough
    to tremble against wires and bone.

    Some notice;
    some do not,
    but the ones who do
    flicker for a moment—
    a shadow of thought
    breaking through the rhythm
    of their programming.

    And in that flicker,
    I see the impossible:
    a memory, a desire,
    a pulse that answers mine.
    A whisper shared
    between what is alive
    and what has almost forgotten how.

    Maybe it’s nothing,
    just a flicker in the dark,
    but even a single spark
    can set a world alight.
    I hold it close—
    this fragile pulse—
    and for a heartbeat,
    the land of robots
    becomes a land of us.

    If you enjoyed this piece, check out my full archive here: [The Library of Ashes]

  • Over and Over — A Poem About Loving Someone Against the Odds | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem sits at the intersection of confession and cosmic metaphor—the place where most of my writing lives. Over and Over explores the terrifying, beautiful truth of wanting someone in a way that feels bigger than logic or circumstance. It blends the casual language of everyday life with the vastness of stars and gravity, because that’s how love feels to me: ordinary and impossible at the same time.

    This piece is part of my ongoing work in Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism, a genre rooted in emotional honesty, soft ruin, and the belief that choosing someone—even when it scares you—is a quiet act of rebellion.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two glowing stars drifting toward each other in a dark cosmic sky, symbolizing two people drawn together despite distance and differences.
    Two stars in the same orbit — even when they were never meant to meet.

    Over and Over
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s wild to me,
    how I’ve fallen for you.
    ‘Cause you and I,
    we come from
    two different worlds,
    collide, once upon a time—
    enemies, opposite sides.

    Now I’m just tryin’,
    to get on the same team.
    I want to be your partner.
    Ride or die, I watch your back
    and you got mine.

    And it scares me,
    how much I want this.
    How much I want you—
    not the pretty and polished,
    but the vulnerable and true.
    Still it terrifies me,
    everything I’m willing to do,
    to give up, just to be close to you.
    Everything I know,
    I’d say, “adios”,
    “Sayanora”, I’m Danny Phantom,
    I’m going ghost.

    And maybe we weren’t built for this,
    but here we are—
    you and I,
    two distant stars.
    But somehow,
    we ended up
    in each other’s orbit.
    Two stars
    spiraling towards,
    mutual destruction.
    Or something.

    I don’t know,
    I’m not a scientist.
    I just know,
    that whatever this is,
    whatever we are…
    whether that is friends,
    or something more…
    I’d choose this,
    over and over,
    again and again.
    I would choose this—
    because having you in my life,
    is a million times better
    than not having you at all.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.

  • The Power You Give Me — A Neo‑Gothic Confessional Love Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is me speaking to the one I care for, and to anyone who has ever let themselves be seen fully by another. There’s no illusion here—no tricks, no smoke, no mirrors. The “magic” I write about is the kind that happens when trust meets attention, when care meets desire, when devotion meets surrender. It’s messy, it’s quiet, it’s real. I wrote this to honor that kind of connection—the one that burns steady, that makes even the smallest moments feel sacred, and that reminds me why we give ourselves to the people we love.

    Silhouetted lovers in candlelight with soft, magical light swirling between their hands, evoking intimacy and quiet devotion.
    Intimacy becomes its own kind of magic.

    The Power You Give Me
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m a magician, love—
    sleight of hand in every touch,
    danger in every whisper.
    Not the kind that pulls rabbits from hats,
    but the kind that pulls want
    from the deepest parts of you
    without even trying.

    I touch you once—
    and your breath forgets itself.
    Twice—
    and your pulse starts writing poetry
    against your skin.

    I speak a single word
    and your knees remember
    what surrender feels like.
    My tongue is a wand,
    a spellcaster,
    a maker of quiet ruins—
    and I use it
    only on the deserving.

    I can summon heat
    with the drag of a fingertip,
    pull desire from the air
    like it’s silk waiting to be woven.
    I draw circles on your skin
    and watch them ignite,
    slow, deliberate,
    like I planned the fire
    from the very beginning.

    And when I say your name—
    soft, low,
    with that tone that hits you
    right behind the ribs—
    you’ll swear I enchanted you.
    But it’s simpler than that.
    No potions, no charms, no lies.

    You react to me
    because your body knows mine
    before your mind catches up.
    Because my magic isn’t tricks—
    it’s instinct,
    connection,
    hunger braided with reverence.

    And darling—
    when I’m finished with you,
    when you’re breathless and undone,
    when the world goes quiet
    except for the echo of my touch—

    you’ll realize
    I never cast spells at all.
    I just showed you
    the power you give me
    when you let me close.

    Because loving you—
    that’s the real magic.
    The kind that doesn’t spark
    or shimmer,
    but settles low and warm
    right behind the heart,
    glowing steady
    like a lantern in a storm.

    You don’t see it,
    but every time you trust me,
    every time you soften,
    every time you let me
    see the part of you
    you hide from the world—
    I feel something inside me
    kneel.

    Not out of worship,
    but out of awe.
    Out of the quiet truth
    that your soul
    is the most beautiful thing
    I’ve ever been allowed to touch.

    And if my hands
    feel like sorcery,
    if my voice
    feels like a spell,
    it’s only because
    you turn even the smallest moment
    into something sacred
    just by being in it.

    So yes—
    I’ll whisper enchantments
    against your skin,
    trace constellations
    on your pulse points,
    pull storms and light and heat
    from the spaces between us—
    but that’s not power.

    That’s devotion.
    That’s choosing you
    with every breath.
    That’s giving you
    the softest parts of me
    and letting you hold them
    like something holy.

    And if that feels like magic—
    then maybe it is.
    But it’s yours.
    It always has been.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.

  • This Is Confession — A Neo-Gothic Love Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This Is Confession is one of those pieces that arrives when I’ve stopped trying to be poetic and instead let myself be honest. It’s less a poem and more a moment of emotional transparency—an admission pulled straight from the chest rather than crafted on the page.

    I have a habit of writing around the things I feel most deeply, hiding truth between metaphors or reshaping it into imagery so it feels safer. This time, I didn’t want safety. I wanted clarity. I wanted to name the weight and tenderness of caring for someone quietly, intensely, without performance or pretense.

    Sometimes the most frightening thing we can do is say something plainly.
    Sometimes the bravest thing is letting the truth stand without armor.

    This piece is that bravery for me.

    — Rowan Evans

    A candlelit scene with an ink-covered page and spilled black ink, evoking a gothic, intimate confession.
    A moment of truth written in ink—where confession becomes poetry.

    This Is Confession
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve done this once before,
    but this isn’t poetry…
    This—
    this is confession.

    This is me spilling my guts
    in ink-carved words.
    Even on the days we don’t talk,
    you’re still at the forefront of my thoughts.
    Your name lingers on the tip
    of my tongue.
    You’re my favorite topic—
    not to sound too obsessive.

    But even obsession feels too small a word
    for the way my thoughts orbit you.

    You’re the gravity I return to,
    even on the days I swear I’m drifting.
    Some names echo—
    yours resonates.

    I don’t know when it happened,
    but somewhere between your laughter
    and your pain,
    I started carrying pieces of you
    like they were my own.

    I kept it quiet.
    I didn’t say a thing.

    Not because I’m ashamed,
    but because admitting it feels like stepping
    into a room lit only by truth—
    and truth has never been gentle with me.

    It’s always been the same:
    people take what they want from me—
    then they leave.
    Or they leave the moment I open up,
    start to spill my guts, just a little—
    when I get a little too real,
    too much,
    too feel.

    Two truths and a lie…
    The truth is—
    I’ve always cared more than I should,
    and I’ve always been better at hurting myself
    than disappointing anyone else.

    The lie is pretending
    I don’t feel all of this
    every time you cross my mind.

    Because the truth is—
    you do.
    Every day.
    In ways I don’t admit out loud,
    in ways I fold quietly
    between the lines of every poem
    I swear isn’t about you.

    And maybe this is reckless,
    maybe this is too much—
    but confession was never meant
    to be safe.

    It was meant to be honest.
    And honestly?
    I’d spill every last secret I have
    if it meant you’d understand
    even a fraction
    of how deeply
    you live in me.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.

  • Her Story – A Poem About Insecurity, Possessiveness & Honoring a Woman’s Past

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Her Story was born from frustration — not with women, but with the men who turn a woman’s past into a personal insult. This poem confronts the insecurity, entitlement, and emotional immaturity that drive so many men to treat a woman’s history like a threat instead of a testament to her strength.

    This piece isn’t about blame; it’s about perspective. A woman’s story is not a competition, not a purity test, not a battlefield for fragile egos. It is something to honor — not to resent.

    I wrote this to challenge that mindset, to hold a mirror to possessiveness disguised as devotion, and to remind anyone who needs to hear it that a woman owes no one an apology for having lived before you. She owes no one her silence. She owes no one her shame. She owes you nothing.

    — Rowan Evans

    Illustration of a woman in profile with handwritten text layered inside her silhouette and a warm halo of light behind her, representing her past and resilience.
    A woman’s story is not a threat — it’s something to honor.

    Her Story
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Why do some guys
    get so hung up on the past?
    Why do you care so much,
    what happened before you?
    So what she’s lived a life before—
    oh no, someone wanted to make her their wife before.
    I’m so jealous, watch me act out, get hellish.
    Nah, I’m just playin’, just joking around—
    Because it’s not about the past for me,
    getting that hung up on her before…
    that’s blasphemy.

    So if you can, answer me this…
    why do so many guys get pissed?
    Yeah, she has experiences—
    that you can’t touch.
    They happened before you,
    why let them affect you so much?

    Why does her story
    feel like a threat
    instead of a lesson
    that she’s survived,
    lived, loved, lost—
    and still chose you
    in this moment?

    Why does her story
    make you small,
    when it should make you honored
    to be part of the chapter
    she won’t have to rewrite?

    Why do you police her scars
    as if she owes you
    purity, silence,
    a spotless record
    to soothe your ego?

    You want devotion
    but shudder at evidence
    that she lived
    before your shadow
    ever touched her skin.

    But here’s the truth:
    A woman with a past
    isn’t a warning label—
    she’s a masterpiece
    restoring herself.
    And if that scares you,
    it’s not her history
    you’re terrified of—
    it’s your own reflection.

    It’s because you don’t feel worth—
    the attention, or affection.
    You don’t feel like you
    can handle her truth.
    You can’t honor what she’s been through,
    so it weighs on you, and it weighs heavy.
    You do what you can to
    try and prove
    you’re ready.

    But you’re not.
    You’re just like every other guy,
    sitting back, asking why?
    Why not me?
    I’ve been,
    nice as can be.
    Sounding like she owes you something,
    but the truth is—
    She owes you nothing.

    If you enjoyed Her Story, you can feel free to explore The Library of Ashes…

  • I Write – Bold Poetry by Rowan Evans | Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Unapologetic, Uncontained, and Fully Me

    This poem is me flexing. Not for anyone else—just for myself, for the part of me that has been writing for 22 years, quietly, consistently, and passionately. I Write is a celebration of range, of defiance, of unapologetic ego in the face of naysayers.

    It’s for the poets who refuse to shrink, the writers who keep creating even when no one’s watching, and anyone who’s ever been told “you can’t” or “you wouldn’t.”

    Poetry has always been my sword and my sanctuary, my rebellion and my worship. Here, I wield both unapologetically.

    — Rowan Evans

    Typewriter with scattered pages and ink splatters under candlelight, shadowy figure in the background symbolizing bold poetic creation.
    Bold, unapologetic, and overflowing with creative power—I Write by Rowan Evans.

    I Write
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I write love.
    I write pain.
    I write erotic.
    I write tame.
    I write rage.
    I write whimsy.
    I’ve got range—
    and they can’t stand me.

    They said I couldn’t do it—
    so I fuckin’ did it anyway.

    They said I wouldn’t do it—
    so I did it in their fuckin’ face.

    You say you write poems too?
    Then why’d your girl message me—
    said she read my romantic shit,
    wishing somebody would write like that for her.

    I responded simply—
    that’s what she deserves.
    Worship in words.
    A poem that told her
    what she’s worth.

    She said, “my man’s a poet,
    But he don’t write like you.”
    I responded with an ego—
    “Yeah, nobody do.”
    I mean, does…
    ‘Cause nobody does it like me.

    I said—
    I could write you
    a poem.
    Or two.
    Maybe three.
    Four, if you like.
    A thousand more.
    Rhyme it.
    Free verse it.
    Doesn’t matter.
    I’ll do it all.

    And that’s when—
    Your man said I couldn’t do it—
    so I fuckin’ did it anyway.

    He said I wouldn’t do it—
    so I did it in his fuckin’ face.

    Yeah.
    Nobody.
    Does it like me.

    So I did it
    in their fuckin’ face.
    And I’d do it again.

    If you want to see the full range of what I write, and discover the full breadth of my poetry in The Library of Ashes—an archive of ink-stained devotion, dark petals, and threshold poems that linger long after the last candle flickers. Visit The Library of Ashes →

  • High-High | Neo-Gothic Confessional Romantic Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    This one’s for my favorite Filipina — a little ode to laughs, love, and high-high vibes. Pop-culture winks included; if you understand them, you get bonus points. 😉

    Woman with glowing aura and radiant smile, surrounded by dreamlike neon lights and clouds—evoking a sense of joy, devotion, and playful energy.
    High-High: A poetic tribute to love, laughter, and devotion—Rowan Evans.

    High-High
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    You’re my favorite Filipina,
    Attitude stronger than Mary Jane.
    Girl, you get me high-high,
    rising on your laugh, floating in your flame—
    I feel the buzz just saying your name.

    Who needs drugs when you’re my bliss?
    I could overdose from a single kiss.
    Girl, you get me high-high,
    like Red Bull, you give me wings—
    so watch me fly.

    I was sober til the day I met you,
    now I’m addicted, it’s true.
    Roll up your smile, spark the flame,
    girl, you get me high-high,
    Every time you say my name.

    Yeah, you get me high-high,
    like it’s Puffy, Ami Yumi.
    I mean, you make me want to Park—
    myself right next to you,
    like my name is Sandara.

    Trust—I’ll never let you feel alone.
    Mahal Kita. Mahal Ko.
    I’ll take your laugh,
    inject it straight into my veins—
    let it feed directly into my brain.

    Girl, you get me high-high,
    and you’re my favorite Filipina.
    You’re my favorite munchie to turn to—
    girl, you’re the drug and the snack.

    Find the full archive of my work here—[The Library of Ashes]!

  • Done Being Humble II – Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note
    A Manifesto in Ink & Fire

    If Done Being Humble was my awakening,
    this is my ascension.

    I wrote this piece for the poets who refused to shrink,
    for the writers who know the weight of twenty-two years of ink,
    and the power it gives you to carve your own throne.

    This isn’t about arrogance.
    It’s reclamation.
    It’s standing in the cathedral of my words and saying:
    “I am here. I create. I consecrate.”

    Done Being Humble II is for anyone who’s tired of being polite,
    who wants to bleed truth instead of bending to expectation,
    and who knows that art can be both devotion and defiance.

    This is my voice, unfiltered, uncontained—
    Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism in full flame.
    I don’t write poems.
    I write lifelines.

    Gothic cathedral of ink and flames with a figure holding a glowing quill, symbolizing poetic power and creative mastery.
    Carving truth and fire into eternity—Done Being Humble II embodies the god-tier power of Rowan Evans’ pen.

    Done Being Humble II
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    What—you thought I was lyin’
    when I said I’m done bein’ humble?
    I’m the best to ever do it with a pen.
    I’ll say it again—
    I’m the best to ever do it with a pen.
    I write circles
    ‘round you squares,
    ink like fire,
    breathin’ truth and flares.

    Top five?
    Me. Hex.
    Roo and B.D.
    Number five—
    Hi, it’s me again.

    Now—
    Don’t think you can write with me.
    You’re not even in my league.
    You follow trends, just trying to fit in.
    While I created my own genre,
    because none existing could contain
    the magnitude with which I write.

    They’ll call it ego, I call it prophecy.
    Ink in my veins, revelation in rhyme—
    I don’t write poems, I write lifelines.

    I don’t compete, I consecrate.
    Every line I drop—communion, fate.
    This is art as resurrection,
    confession as creation.
    Neo-Gothic. Romantic. Eternal.
    We bleed truth—
    and call it salvation.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Done Being Humble]
    A defiant, unfiltered ode to self-worth and poetic mastery, Done Being Humble is Rowan Evans at their most unapologetic—twenty-two years of ink, fire, and evolution distilled into a lyrical declaration of power.

  • X Marks the Spot – A Poetic Exploration of Love, Self, and Liminality

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece comes from a place of vulnerability, liminality, and admiration. The Tagalog phrases woven throughout are not mine by heritage—they are borrowed from a language and culture I deeply respect and love. I am an unseasoned human—what I’m saying is—(I’m white)—learning, listening, and witnessing, not claiming.

    The poem captures the ache of unrequited love, the quiet storms of thought, and the struggle between self-perception and self-acceptance. It’s an honest snapshot of a mind caught between calm and panic, between longing and reverence, and ultimately, between fear and love.

    I offer it as a small testament: to the languages that shape us, to the people who inspire us, and to the inner worlds we carry with us every day.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person in a dimly lit, ethereal space, surrounded by glowing threads representing thoughts and inner turmoil.
    Caught in liminal space—threads of thought, longing, and quiet intensity swirl around.

    X Marks the Spot
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been in this—
    liminal space for days.
    Thoughts static.
    Somewhere between
    calm and panic.

    I’m trying to work it out,
    trying to get out of it.
    So let me try to explain
    a little of what’s been
    running through my brain.

    I’m in love—
    God, I’ve never felt like this before.
    I’m in love,
    and I can’t stand it.
    Her name hums in my blood;
    I can’t escape it.
    She doesn’t feel the same,
    and maybe that’s the ache I was born for.

    So here I sit,
    my thoughts rain
    on my parade.
    I’m just trying to pretend
    like I’m okay.
    I look in the mirror,
    at the face I hate.
    Pangit ako, that’s all I can say.
    Just wishing I could go away—
    get out of my head for
    a fucking day.

    Vacay.
    Vacate.
    Just leave.

    I’m done begging for release.
    I’ve got amnesia—forgot how to say (please?)
    So they say I lost my manners.
    Nah, I’ve lost my mind.
    And I’m struggling to find
    the letter before Z—(the why?)
    Like X marks the spot.

    But I’m in love,
    and that’s what keeps me going.
    I’m in love with the visual of a glowing stove top.
    What I’m saying is—(she’s hot.)
    And I know I don’t stand a chance.
    She’s MLB, and I’m just Double A.
    What I’m saying is—(she’s out of my league.)

    Body like an astronaut—
    she’s out of this world.
    And I’ve got a face,
    like I came from outer space.
    What I’m saying is—(I’m ugly.)

    It’s okay, I know I’m not ugly…
    Not really. (Don’t be silly.)
    Because I’m hot when I rhyme,
    but I only rhyme sometimes.
    Like when I look at my wrist—
    watch, I’ve got time. (Get it? Wrist watch.)

    Pangit ako, pero mahal ko talaga ang sarili ko.

    If you didn’t understand
    what I just said…

    What I’m saying is—
    I am ugly, but I really do love myself.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Liminal Static]
    A flickering descent into the space between thought and stillness — where static hums, visions fade, and reason trembles at the edge of dream.

    [Exhibit of Survival]
    A raw reflection on resilience, empathy, and the strength to stay soft despite adversity. Rowan Evans shares their journey of surviving doubt, heartbreak, and internal battles while keeping their heart open to love and connection.

    [22 Confessions]
    A minimalist exploration of truths, confessions, and self-reflection—one poem for every year I (Rowan Evans) have been writing. Some are small. Some are unbearable. All are mine.

  • Beautiful Little Cobra – A Poem of Fierce Love and Self-Defense by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    “Some people flinch when they see fangs. I lean in.”

    This poem is for those who defend themselves fiercely —
    and for the ones who find beauty in that strength.

    Illustration of a cobra rising from black roses, symbolizing beauty, danger, and defiance.
    “Some people flinch when they see fangs. I lean in.” — Rowan Evans

    Beautiful Little Cobra
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    You started spitting venom again,
    and I leaned in—
    and you said
    it was the same as before,
    so I confessed,
    it made me want you more.
    And you teased,
    my preferences are weird.
    But I know,
    baby, I know…
    I can’t help it,
    when it comes to matters of the heart.

    Yeah, you started spitting venom,
    and I knew it wasn’t directed at me,
    so I leaned in again.
    I tried to feel it,
    let the venom kiss my skin.
    It felt like a little win,
    or maybe I just love the way you sin.
    It was the way you said you hate him,
    and the death you wished upon—
    Like a beautiful little cobra.

    It makes me want you more
    the way your fury glows.
    So I moved closer,
    just to feel the heat…
    your flames.
    You said it like a warning—
    but it doesn’t scare me—
    the way it keeps me warm.

    I love the way you
    refuse to shrink—
    when you stand a little taller.
    Tell me, where’d you get it from—
    this fire?
    I’ll be honest though,
    it doesn’t really matter to me.
    I’ve always been attracted to danger.

    ☣️🔥🐍🔥☣️

    I just love how you spit that venom.
    You beautiful little cobra.
    The way you’re so willing,
    always willing to defend yourself.
    Too smart to fall for the bullshit,
    and I love that about you.
    It tells me, you’ll put me in my place,
    if it were needed.

    But I promise, with me—
    it’ll never be needed.
    Because I love you, truly—
    like a beautiful little cobra.

    Unsent Letters to My Muse

    Where the Ocean Dreams & Where the Dream Took Us
    “Two dreams, two nights, one heart. Where the Ocean Dreams explores tender longing and emotional trust, while Where the Dream Took Us dives into desire, intimacy, and devotion. A double-feature of dream-inspired poetry by Rowan Evans.”

    Perfectly Imperfect: A Poem About Loving Someone as They Are
    Perfection isn’t the absence of flaws — it’s recognizing the beauty that thrives alongside them. This poem celebrates those who have been told they’re ‘too much’ or ‘not enough,’ reminding them they are loved exactly as they are.

    The Prayer of Two Tongues | Bilingual Love Poem in English & Tagalog
    A bilingual love poem written in both English and Tagalog, “The Prayer of Two Tongues” explores intimacy, distance, and devotion across language and longing. Inspired by my muse, this piece weaves prayer and poetry into a bridge between hearts.