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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: neo-gothic confessional romanticism

  • The World Shifted Around Us | A Dream Poem About Love, Silence & Changing Landscapes

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some dreams tell stories.

    Others simply place you beside someone and let the world unfold around you.

    This poem came from one of those dreams.

    What fascinated me wasn’t that the scenery kept changing—from beaches, to city streets, to a dense jungle—but that neither of us moved. We stayed exactly where we were while everything else transformed around us.

    That became the emotional center of the poem.

    Sometimes the people who matter most become the fixed point in our lives. Circumstances change. Places change. Time changes. But certain connections remain steady enough that everything else feels like it’s revolving around them.

    I also wanted to explore the idea that silence isn’t empty.

    Some of the most meaningful moments I’ve experienced—whether in dreams or in waking life—have involved very few words. A glance, a smile, the way someone looks at you for a single second can communicate more than entire conversations.

    By the end of the poem, the world stops changing altogether.

    The dream begins to dissolve, but one thing refuses to disappear.

    Not the beach.

    Not the city.

    Not the jungle.

    Just her face.

    Sometimes that’s what we carry back into waking life: not the dream itself, but the feeling that remained after everything else faded.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two people stand facing one another as the landscape shifts from a moonlit beach to city streets and then into a lush jungle while they remain perfectly still.
    Some people become the constant while the rest of the world keeps changing. Dreams simply make that truth visible.

    The World Shifted Around Us
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I laid down in need of rest,
    it was just a nap, that’s all it was—
    but as soon as I closed my eyes,
    I saw your face—your voice broke the silence.
    Then the void around us shifted,
    it became a beach and then city streets.

    We never changed positions—
    the world changed around us.

    We didn’t drift, didn’t sway—
    we just stood and stayed,
    but the world continued to change.
    First the beach, then city streets—
    before finally shifting into trees
    as far as the eye could see.

    The jungle was thick with trees,
    but not as thick as the humidity.

    With every shift, my vision blurs—
    except the vision of her.
    As the world becomes hard to see,
    she remains steady.

    And her face carries a thousand words,
    even when her voice goes unused.

    We didn’t speak, we didn’t need to—
    even as the world continued to shift.
    From the beach to city streets,
    then the jungle deep—
    the next place was somewhere simpler.

    Somewhere that felt more like peace,
    an escape from the heat and humidity.

    Still not a word was spoken—
    but you gave a look,
    quick and simple,
    but it said so much.
    Because the truth is
    you didn’t need words to tease.

    The world around us softened—
    colors thinning, edges fading,
    but you stayed clear a moment longer,
    steady in the quiet.

    The moment settled into something calm—
    the air cooling, the silence warm,
    your eyes holding mine
    with that same quiet tease—

    in the end, the world stopped shifting—
    no beach, no streets, no jungle heat.

    And the last thing to fade was your face—
    the world dimming around it
    like a curtain drawing closed.
    Even as the dream thinned to nothing,
    your look stayed bright behind my eyelids,
    a quiet afterglow that followed me
    into the stillness of waking.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Every Night, The Same Flight]
    Every night begins with the same flight. Between wakefulness and sleep, an airport appears, a familiar shoreline waits beyond the journey, and the same dream asks whether some destinations find us before we’re ready to find them.

    [Where I Belonged]
    A bedroom becomes an airport in the space between sleep and waking. Where I Belonged explores liminal consciousness, uncertainty, and the strange moments when reality feels suspended between two worlds.

    [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.

    [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 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.

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

  • More Afraid Than the Ink | A Confessional Poem About Fear, Dreams & Unspoken Love

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems don’t begin with an idea.

    They begin with resistance.

    This one came from that familiar place I’ve written about before: four in the morning, when the world is quiet enough that my thoughts become impossible to ignore.

    I started writing about fear, but somewhere along the way I realized I wasn’t afraid of the page.

    The page has never been the problem.

    Ink has always been brave.

    It says the things I hesitate to speak.

    The real fear has always been what happens after the words exist.

    What happens when a confession leaves the safety of metaphor.

    When it stops being “the moon,” “the tide,” or “the shore,” and simply becomes the truth.

    If you’ve read much of my recent work, you’ll probably recognize many of the images here. The moon. The bay. The ocean. The distant shoreline. Dreams that feel more like memories than imagination.

    They’re all still here.

    Only this time, the poem admits something they’ve been pointing toward all along.

    Sometimes metaphors aren’t hiding the truth.

    They’re slowly teaching us how to say it.

    — Rowan Evans

    An open journal and fountain pen beside a moonlit bay with shimmering reflections across calm water.
    Sometimes the ink is willing to tell the truth long before the poet is.

    More Afraid Than the Ink
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Four AM again—
    I breathe in and try to center myself,
    but it doesn’t seem to help.
    My mind wanders—
    moving from idea to truth
    and back again,
    carrying a collection of images
    and broken metaphors.

    The ink runs from my pen—
    like it’s scared of it.
    Because sometimes,
    my thoughts are dark
    and there’s no light in it.
    It trembles—
    lines becoming jagged
    as the truth hits
    a little too close to home.

    And the metaphors
    are broken for sure—
    it’s like I see the moon,
    but it doesn’t shimmer anymore.
    I don’t see the bay,
    I don’t feel the tide.

    There’s no ache,
    no longing for connection—
    across a divide
    an ocean wide.

    Okay, I lied.

    At night, when I close my eyes
    and my head hits the pillow—
    I feel the tide,
    it tugs at the heartstrings inside.
    I hear the waves, feel the ocean spray—
    and I see the familiar shimmer,
    the way the moon’s light trembles
    across dark water.

    The tide is why I dream of your shores—
    it’s why I walk your streets in sleep.
    And the moon provides the spotlight
    for every confession
    I speak with eyes closed…

    for every confession
    that I cannot say aloud,
    not outside of my dreams—not now,
    because I’m more afraid
    than the ink is.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [When the Veil Is Thin]
    Some truths wait until after four in the morning to make themselves known. When the Veil Is Thin explores insomnia, longing, quiet vulnerability, and the thoughts that become impossible to ignore before dawn.

    [Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)]
    A moonlit shoreline, a rowboat full of ducks, a piggybank with no cents, and a confession hidden in plain sight. Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3) explores how humor, wordplay, and absurdity can become a side door to vulnerability when the truth feels too difficult to say directly.

    [The Language Her Soul Speaks]
    What if love isn’t about being understood, but learning to understand someone else? “The Language Her Soul Speaks” is a free verse poem about intimacy, communication, curiosity, and the desire to know another person beyond the limits of language.

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

  • Where Intimacy Begins | A Poem About Mental Connection and Deep Conversation

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    People often ask what I find attractive.

    The answer has never been particularly complicated.

    I’ve always been fascinated by minds.

    Not intelligence in the competitive sense. Not who can quote the most books or win the most arguments.

    I mean curiosity.

    The way someone thinks.

    The stories they tell without realizing they’re telling them.

    The dreams they quietly carry.

    The questions that keep them awake at night.

    I’ve found that the most beautiful parts of a person usually reveal themselves in conversation.

    Not during introductions.

    Not through appearances.

    But somewhere between laughter, honesty, and those moments when someone forgets they’re trying to impress you.

    That’s when people become themselves.

    I’ve always believed there are pieces of us that only exist in dialogue. Parts that don’t emerge until someone asks the right question, or listens long enough for the answer to arrive.

    Maybe that’s why I chose the word lore.

    History is a record of what happened.

    Lore is what those moments became.

    It’s the mythology of a person—the stories, beliefs, fears, dreams, and experiences that shape how they move through the world.

    That’s what I want to know.

    Not because I need to solve anyone.

    Because understanding another person’s inner world feels like one of the greatest privileges we can offer each other.

    This poem isn’t really about romance.

    It’s about attention.

    About listening deeply enough that another person feels safe becoming fully known.

    For me, that’s where intimacy has always begun.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two people sharing a thoughtful conversation as glowing words and constellations symbolize a deep mental connection.
    “Some people fall for a smile. Others fall for the mind behind it.”

    Where Intimacy Begins
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    They may want a body,
    but I want a mind—
    they are fine with the surface,
    I want the depths that you hide.
    It’s in conversation you find
    the light hidden inside.

    They see beauty in a face,
    I see beauty in the things you say
    and the way language takes shape.
    I see beauty in the thoughts,
    the dreams, the plans.

    You see, it’s all about
    the mental connection for me.
    I want to touch your mind,
    see what stories I’ll find—
    the lore that I’ll learn.

    And when you speak, I’ll listen—
    you should always feel heard.

    I want the stories
    you never say out loud,
    the half-formed dreams you keep
    tucked beneath your ribs.

    There are pieces of you
    that only appear in conversation.
    So I’ll hold your thoughts gently,
    the way others hold hands.

    Because I’ve learned beauty
    lives deeper than skin,
    the way a thought can light a room
    inside me—

    how a single sentence
    can feel like a door unlocking.

    I’ll meet you
    where your mind wanders.
    I’ll be the quiet
    that lets your truth come forward.

    I’ll fall for the way you think
    before anything else,
    because the mind—

    is where intimacy begins.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [What I’m Trying to Say]
    What begins as an exaggerated promise of love slowly strips itself back until only one simple truth remains: real devotion isn’t found in grand gestures—it’s found in consistently showing up.

    [I’d Rather Try]
    Anyone can promise they’d die for someone. But love isn’t built on one dramatic moment—it’s built on showing up, trying again tomorrow, and proving your words through consistent action.

    [The Language Her Soul Speaks]
    What if love isn’t about being understood, but learning to understand someone else? “The Language Her Soul Speaks” is a free verse poem about intimacy, communication, curiosity, and the desire to know another person beyond the limits of language.

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

  • Content Warning | A Humorous Poetry Roast of Bad Storytelling and Bad People

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem wasn’t planned.
    It wasn’t outlined.
    It wasn’t even politely invited.

    It showed up at 6:58 AM, unannounced, fully formed, and absolutely determined to be written. I was trying to go back to sleep, but the first nine lines kept repeating in my head like a notification I couldn’t clear. So I got up, opened my notes, and twenty‑two minutes later this entire piece existed.

    It’s not deep.
    It’s not symbolic.
    It’s not part of a series.

    It’s just what happens when my brain decides to roast someone using the language of literature and refuses to let me rest until I write it down.

    Most of my recent work has been heavy, reflective, rooted in longing and transition. This one is… not that. This is me having fun. This is me letting the metaphorical knife out for a morning stroll. This is me, writing the poetic equivalent of a one‑star Goodreads review for a person who deserved it.

    If you’re here for emotional devastation, don’t worry — I’ll get back to that soon.
    But for now, enjoy this brief intermission of petty, poetic chaos.

    — Rowan Evans

    An edited manuscript covered in red proofreading marks on a writer's desk with a fountain pen and scattered pages.
    “Some stories deserve five stars. Others deserve a content warning.”

    Content Warning
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m going to tell you like it is,
    if I don’t like you—
    I’m going to say it quick.

    I read you like a book,
    the moment you entered my view.
    I read you like my favorite series,
    finished in a day—

    but you’re a book, full of plot holes.
    Your narrative is flawed.

    Your dialogue is forced,
    your motives unclear,
    your character arc
    never quite lands, dear.

    I don’t need a sequel
    to know how this ends.
    Some stories fall apart
    before the final page—
    and yours was unraveling
    from the start.

    Your thoughts are typos,
    in need of rewrite, bro—
    editor should have lost their job, too.

    How were you released to the public?

    Your plot twists fall flat,
    your pacing drags,
    your themes contradict
    every claim you make.

    What genre are you even in?

    You’re a draft
    that never should’ve passed
    the first round of edits—

    a story stitched together
    with clichés and guesswork.

    I’ve read fanfiction
    with tighter structure
    and more believable motives.

    You’re not a novel—
    you’re a warning label
    masquerading as prose.

    You should come with a content warning:

    This content blows.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [The Monster in the Margins]
    Drawing inspiration from horror icons like Michael Myers, Ghostface, Freddy Krueger, and Pennywise, this poem explores the darker side of creativity—where inspiration becomes an unstoppable force lurking just beyond the edge of the page.

    [Director’s Commentary]
    Director’s Commentary is a self-aware free verse poem that turns the poet’s recurring metaphors into the subject itself, exploring creativity, artistic habits, and the humorous inner critic that follows every writer from draft to draft.

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

  • The Monster in the Margins | A Horror Poetry Tribute to Creative Obsession

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve always loved horror—not for the blood or the jump scares, but because horror understands metaphor.

    The best monsters are never just monsters.

    They’re grief. They’re guilt. They’re obsession. They’re the parts of ourselves we’d rather keep locked in the basement.

    This poem started as a playful exercise in horror references. I wanted to see how many iconic slasher and supernatural figures I could weave together without losing the rhythm.

    But somewhere along the way, the references stopped being the point.

    The “monster” became the creative voice itself.

    The one that refuses to stay quiet. The one that follows me from notebook to notebook, insisting on another poem, another line, another draft.

    Writers often talk about inspiration as something beautiful.

    Sometimes it is.

    Sometimes it’s relentless.

    Sometimes it feels less like a muse…

    and more like the monster waiting patiently in the margins until you pick up the pen again.

    — Rowan Evans

    An open notebook with dark ink spreading through the margins like ghostly shadows beneath a dim desk lamp.
    “Every writer knows the feeling—the story isn’t always waiting on the page. Sometimes it’s waiting in the margins.”

    The Monster in the Margins
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m a literary slasher villain,
    Michael Myers with a pen.
    I’m a humorous menace,
    a terror with a clown’s face—

    Pennywise in my rhymes,
    with a Ghostface rhythm.
    It’s Kruger in the cadence,
    you can try and imitate it.

    I’m the ghost that haunts
    these old bones—
    the groan in the rafters
    of this old home—
    I’m the eyes you can’t seem to shake,
    the reason you never feel alone.

    My poetry is a whisper
    in an empty room,
    the cold chill in the air—
    I weave lines with rhymes
    like hidden messages
    in the mirror.

    Bloody Mary.
    Redrum—

    a horror scene
    on college-ruled—
    notebook full
    of nightmare fuel.

    I am the Pulse
    in the Infection,
    the killer’s Resurrection.

    Red tape won’t stop this.
    It’s a ritual, no control—
    you’ve lost it.

    I’m the creeping dread,
    the scream inside your head.
    The tingle in your spine—
    a voice echoing to no end.

    I’m the shadow you cast in your own mind—
    the part of you that never dies.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Returning to My Bones] – Rowan Evans
    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] – Rowan Evans
    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.

    [The Hunted] – B.D. Nightshade
    Under a blood-red Oklahoma moon, predators stalk the silent fields—and one soul learns what it means to be chosen by the night.

    [Cannibal Carnival] – B.D. Nightshade
    A carnival arrives under cover of mist—bright tents, painted smiles, and a hunger that won’t stay hidden. By morning, only whispers remain.

    [Ouija]– B.D. Nightshade
    A grieving soul seeks comfort through a Ouija board—only to discover that not every voice from the dark belongs to the dead we miss.

    [Before the Glass Shattered] – B.D. Nightshade
    Before the glass shatters, shadows linger and memories twist. Discover the haunting prelude to B.D. Nightshade’s “Through the Shattered Glass” series—where ordinary moments become portals to fractured realities.

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

  • Following the Footprints | A Dream Poem About Finding Yourself

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some dreams feel symbolic.

    Others feel instructional.

    This poem came from that second feeling.

    The beach, the horizon, the whispers, and the footprints aren’t meant to be frightening. They’re invitations. They represent the quiet moments when life seems to pause long enough for us to notice something we’ve been overlooking within ourselves.

    I’ve written often about dreams leading me toward places that feel like home. This time, the destination wasn’t a city or a shoreline—it was a version of myself.

    The footprints became a simple question:

    What if the person I’m trying to become has been leaving signs for me all along?

    Sometimes growth doesn’t happen by discovering somewhere new.

    Sometimes it happens by recognizing the path we’ve already been walking, even when we couldn’t see it at the time.

    This poem lives in that space between mystery and recognition, where intuition quietly whispers louder than certainty ever could.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure on a quiet beach follows mysterious footprints across the sand toward the horizon at dusk.
    “Sometimes the path we’re searching for is already beneath our feet—we only have to choose to follow it.”

    Following the Footprints
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I sat at the ocean’s edge,
    watching as the tide came and went—

    I was lost in thought,
    eyes locked on the horizon.
    I was watching the sun set
    as night came—

    I watched the light fade.

    I could hear the echoes
    of whispers and laughter,
    they seem to ring—
    from every direction.

    The beach was littered
    with footprints—
    but not a person in sight,
    something didn’t feel right.

    The air felt too still,
    like the world had paused
    mid‑breath.

    Even the waves moved quietly,
    as if they were trying
    not to disturb whatever
    was watching me back.

    I stood up slowly,
    not out of fear,
    but out of recognition—

    like I had been here before,
    in another dream,
    as another version of myself
    I hadn’t met yet.

    The sky darkened
    in a way that felt deliberate,
    as if the night was arriving
    for me specifically.

    The whispers grew softer,
    closer,
    almost familiar—

    like memories I’d forgotten
    were trying to find their way back.

    I turned toward the footprints,
    each one pressed deep
    into the sand,
    leading somewhere
    I couldn’t see.

    And I knew,
    without knowing how,
    that if I followed them,
    I would find the part of myself—

    I had been missing
    for years.

    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.

    [Only Waiting]
    The second poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind series, exploring the quiet ache of growing up in a place that never truly felt like home—and finally saying aloud what years of metaphor had been trying to express.

    [Crossing the Sea]
    A deeply personal poem about relocation, longing, and the realization that some truths naturally arrive through metaphor—even when we try to leave it behind.

    [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.

    [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.

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

  • The Life of a Witness Poet | A Poem About Loving from a Distance

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems arrive as declarations.

    This one arrived as an observation.

    I’ve often described myself as a witness poet—someone who pays attention, who notices the emotional weather around the people I care about, and then translates those observations into poetry.

    Sometimes that role feels like a gift.

    Sometimes it feels helpless.

    Because witnessing doesn’t always come with the ability to change what you see.

    You can recognize someone’s strength, admire their resilience, ache alongside their struggles, and still be separated by circumstances larger than either of you.

    This poem isn’t about unrequited love.

    It isn’t about sacrifice.

    It’s about accepting that love isn’t always measured by proximity.

    Sometimes love looks like paying attention.

    Sometimes it looks like quietly hoping someone feels a little less alone because, somewhere in the world, another heart witnessed their struggle with compassion instead of judgment.

    That’s the strange privilege—and responsibility—of being a witness poet.

    Not every distance is meant to be closed.

    Some are simply meant to be seen.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure watching moonlight shimmer across a calm ocean toward a distant shore, symbolizing quiet love, witnessing, and emotional distance.
    “Some distances cannot be crossed—but they can still be held with compassion.”

    The Life of a Witness Poet
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    The life of a witness poet—

    it’s harder than you think,
    when your heart bleeds in ink.
    And it only gets harder
    when you’ve fallen
    for the one you witness.

    You see the weight she carries,
    you watch from a distance—
    your hands tied by the tide,
    and the gap—an ocean wide.
    You want to be a light in her life—

    like the moon in the sky.

    You learn to glow quietly,
    hoping she’ll look up someday—

    not for you,
    but for the comfort
    you’ve been trying to give
    from a distance.

    So you learn to love in silence,
    in the spaces between her storms—

    holding what you can,
    honoring what you can’t,
    knowing some distances
    aren’t meant to be crossed,
    only witnessed.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [What I’m Trying to Say]
    What begins as an exaggerated promise of love slowly strips itself back until only one simple truth remains: real devotion isn’t found in grand gestures—it’s found in consistently showing up.

    [I’d Rather Try]
    Anyone can promise they’d die for someone. But love isn’t built on one dramatic moment—it’s built on showing up, trying again tomorrow, and proving your words through consistent action.

    [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.

    [Only Waiting]
    The second poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind series, exploring the quiet ache of growing up in a place that never truly felt like home—and finally saying aloud what years of metaphor had been trying to express.

    [Crossing the Sea]
    A deeply personal poem about relocation, longing, and the realization that some truths naturally arrive through metaphor—even when we try to leave it behind.

    [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.

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

  • What I’m Trying to Say | A Love Poem About Devotion, Presence, and Showing Up

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes poetry gets carried away.

    This poem certainly did.

    It began with a simple thought: I’ve always believed that “I’d live for you” carries more weight than “I’d die for you.”

    Living requires consistency.

    It asks something of you every single day.

    Somewhere along the way, though, my imagination decided that wasn’t enough. Suddenly I was climbing out of graves, becoming immune to death, and accidentally writing the world’s most dramatic promise.

    Which is why the poem has to stop and laugh at itself.

    Because beneath all the exaggeration, there is a much quieter truth trying to be heard.

    I’m not promising the impossible.

    I’m not promising eternity.

    I’m simply saying the thing I’ve been trying to say all along:

    If you need me…

    I’ll show up.

    Again.

    And again.

    And again.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure waiting with a lantern in gentle rain at twilight, symbolizing loyalty, devotion, and the quiet promise to always be there.
    “The greatest promises are rarely the loudest—they are the ones we keep, day after day.”

    What I’m Trying to Say
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    “I’d die for you,”
    I’ve heard it a time or two—
    a grand gesture with no meaning,
    no follow through.

    “I would live for you,”
    I’ve said it a time or two—
    a simple gesture with so much meaning,
    it’s all about the follow through.

    Yes, I would live for you—
    I would live so true, that if I died—
    I’d dig myself from my grave
    to return to you.

    I’d become the undead,
    just to keep the promises I’ve said.
    I’d develop an immunity to death—
    I’ll never know what comes next,
    what’s the afterlife like?

    I’ll never know…

    Okay, maybe—
    I pushed that a little too far.
    Dragged it right to the edge,
    held it over the ledge—

    what am I trying to say?

    I guess—
    what I am trying to say is—

    I’ll be there. Always.
    Shine or rain, smiles or pain—
    my devotion doesn’t change.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [I’d Rather Try]
    Anyone can promise they’d die for someone. But love isn’t built on one dramatic moment—it’s built on showing up, trying again tomorrow, and proving your words through consistent action.

    [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.

    [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.

    [The Language Her Souls Speaks]
    What if love isn’t about being understood, but learning to understand someone else? “The Language Her Soul Speaks” is a free verse poem about intimacy, communication, curiosity, and the desire to know another person beyond the limits of language.

    [It’s You I Choose]
    A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

    [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.

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

  • I’d Rather Try | A Poem About Love, Consistency, and Showing Up

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some promises sound beautiful because they are dramatic.

    “I’d die for you.”

    It’s a phrase we’ve heard in songs, films, books, and poetry for centuries. It carries an undeniable emotional weight.

    But while writing this poem, I found myself asking a different question.

    What happens after the dramatic declaration?

    Because most relationships aren’t built on one extraordinary moment.

    They’re built on ordinary ones.

    Showing up.

    Listening.

    Being consistent.

    Choosing someone again tomorrow after choosing them today.

    Dying for someone is an idea that exists in a single moment.

    Living for someone is a practice that unfolds across thousands of moments.

    That’s what this poem is really about.

    Not grand gestures, but quiet commitment.

    Not sacrifice for a day…

    but presence for a lifetime.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two people reaching toward one another across a narrow gap at sunrise, symbolizing trust, consistency, and choosing to show up for someone every day.
    “Love isn’t measured by one extraordinary promise—it is measured by the ordinary moments when we choose to stay, to try, and to be there.”

    I’d Rather Try
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Oh, they said they’d die for you—
    and give all of their life too.
    But would they be there for you
    and truly care too?

    Anyone can say they’d die—
    but would they have the spine,
    when it comes time
    to put it on the line?

    What would I do?

    Well—
    I would try for you
    and live all of my life too.
    I would be there for you,
    and truly care too.

    Yeah, I know—
    anyone can say they’d try,
    but consistency is where
    promises live or die.

    And I’ve tried to prove
    myself consistently.

    To show that I mean
    what I say—
    in more than just words,
    because it’s about the actions too.

    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.

    [Only Waiting]
    The second poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind series, exploring the quiet ache of growing up in a place that never truly felt like home—and finally saying aloud what years of metaphor had been trying to express.

    [Crossing the Sea]
    A deeply personal poem about relocation, longing, and the realization that some truths naturally arrive through metaphor—even when we try to leave it behind.

    [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.

    [Not Rebuilding You]
    A poem about love as an act of presence rather than rescue. Through construction imagery, Not Rebuilding You explores trust, devotion, emotional safety, and the quiet work of building a foundation strong enough for healing to grow.

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

  • Victor Frankenstein of Rhythm and Rhyme | A Poem About Identity Through Writing

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems arrive as observations.

    Others arrive as questions.

    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

    A poet writing by candlelight as handwritten pages transform into stitched-together figures made from words, symbolizing creativity, identity, and the act of creating poetry.
    “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.

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