Tag: neo-gothic confessional romanticism

  • Author’s Note

    This poem began as a collection of bad jokes.

    Or at least that was the excuse.

    Sometimes I start writing with no destination in mind. A phrase appears. Then a pun. Then another. A moon becomes a metaphor. Ducks end up in a rowboat. A piggybank loses all its cents.

    And somewhere in the middle of all that nonsense, something honest sneaks in.

    I’ve noticed that humor often works like a side door.

    There are things I can say directly. There are things I can say through poetry. And then there are things that feel easier to approach sideways, hidden beneath wordplay, jokes, and absurd little detours.

    This piece lives in that space.

    The speaker keeps drifting away from the point, circling it rather than naming it. Every joke becomes a delay tactic. Every pun buys another moment before the truth has to be spoken aloud.

    Because sometimes vulnerability isn’t difficult because you don’t know what you feel.

    Sometimes it’s difficult because you know exactly what you feel.

    And saying it out loud makes it real.

    The title’s parenthetical reference, “1, 4, 3,” comes from an old numerical shorthand for a phrase many people know by heart. I liked the idea of building an entire poem around avoiding a confession, only to hide it in plain sight.

    In the end, the poem says exactly what it means.

    It just takes the scenic route to get there.

    Rowan Evans


    A solitary figure stands on a moonlit beach beside gentle ocean waves while silver moonlight reflects across the water beneath a glowing night sky.
    Sometimes the longest journey to the truth is the scenic route—through moonlight, wordplay, ocean waves, and all the jokes we tell before we finally say what we mean.

    Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand on the shore
    giving ocean waves—
    begging the tide
    to take me away.

    I trace the moon
    across the sky,
    I map it in rhyme.
    Line after—
    silver-lined metaphor.

    I got my ducks in a row
    boat—is that what the paddles for?
    I know the direction,
    what would I panic for?

    You might be confused—
    I know that made no sense,
    like an empty piggybank.
    No cents, thoughts scattered
    like loose change.

    I use jokes
    to mask the truth sometimes.

    It makes what I want to say,
    an easier pill to swallow—

    1 letter
    followed by 4
    then 3—

    Together, they mean
    you mean the most to me.
    By your side—

    is where I’m supposed to be.


    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [1-4-3]
    A poem about love that isn’t rooted in need, but in choice. About finding safety not as a cage, but as a place where fear finally stops running—and stays.

    [1-4-3 (Tongue Tied)]
    A vulnerable poem about holding back the words that matter most. 1-4-3 (Tongue Tied) explores fear, emotional suppression, and the quiet ache of wanting to say “I love you.”

    [What I Want to Say]
    Sometimes the hardest words to say are the simplest ones. What I Want to Say explores love, hesitation, and the fear of what might change if you finally speak.

    [No Parachute]
    A poetic reflection on falling in love without hesitation—raw, uncertain, and without a safety net.

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

  • Author’s Note

    This piece exists because I started chasing a joke and never stopped.

    It began with the phrase “candy bars” and my brain immediately decided that if I was going to use that line, then I had a responsibility to see how many directions I could stretch it before the whole thing collapsed.

    Apparently the answer was: quite a few.

    Music bars. Candy bars. Space metaphors. Basketball references. Superheroes. Bob the Builder.

    At some point I stopped asking where the poem was going and just followed it.

    What surprised me is that beneath all the wordplay and punchlines, a theme quietly emerged on its own.

    I’ve spent twenty-three years writing.

    Long enough that writing no longer feels like something I do—it feels like part of the architecture of my life. Every poem, every story, every abandoned draft, every late-night idea scribbled into a notebook has contributed to the person I became.

    So while this piece is intentionally playful, there is a small truth hiding inside all the jokes.

    The lines about Jordan, Batman, Thor, and building aren’t really about any of those things.

    They’re about creation.

    About spending years building something that didn’t exist before.

    A voice. A body of work. A universe made from language.

    The title came from one of the many candy references, but it also captures the spirit of the piece perfectly.

    Part joke. Part aspiration.

    Because if you’ve spent decades writing, I think you’re allowed to dream a little.

    And if that dream happens to include a 100 Grand and a book deal, well…

    I won’t argue with it.

    Rowan Evans


    A poet stands in a cosmic landscape surrounded by floating candy bars, stars, books, and galaxies, symbolizing creativity, ambition, and a lifetime of writing.
    Every bar starts somewhere. Sometimes with candy. Sometimes with stars. Sometimes with a dream worth building one line at a time.

    100 Grand and a Book Deal
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    My taste in music is crazy,
    I guess you could say—
    I listen to looney tunes.

    The sound comes from
    across the stars,
    I provide out‑of‑this‑world bars.
    So when we get together
    it’s a Space Jam.

    I’m soft like nougat,
    I write candy bars—
    with a punchline
    that hits so hard,
    it’s got a CRUNCH
    like Nestle’s.

    Milky Way thoughts—
    going cosmic
    every time I brainstorm.
    An Airhead?
    Maybe—
    I keep my head
    in Fluffy Stuff clouds.

    And I won’t stop,
    won’t give in
    until the Payday hits—
    100 Grand
    and a book deal.

    Every poem’s a hit.
    I don’t miss—
    like my name’s Steph Curry.

    23 years GOAT’d,
    Jordan in his prime—
    the way I pen my rhymes.
    Did it with no Pippen.
    No Rodman—
    I am Batman, no Robin.

    I built this house myself.
    Swinging hammers,
    call me Odinson—
    Bob the Builder
    building something.

    I made this universe
    line by line—

    and every bar I drop
    is mine.


    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Copy of a Copy]
    A sharp, self-aware poem about originality, imitation, and the search for an authentic creative voice. What begins as a diss gradually reveals itself as a meditation on authorship, influence, and the things that can never truly be copied.

    [Lone Wolf Theology]
    A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [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.

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [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.

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

  • Author’s Note

    This piece started as a diss.

    Or at least that’s what I told myself when I began writing it.

    The voice arrived first: irritated, dismissive, sharp around the edges. The kind of voice that has grown tired of watching imitation mistake itself for originality.

    But as the poem developed, I realized it wasn’t really about a specific person.

    It was about authorship.

    About the difference between influence and imitation.

    Every writer begins by borrowing something. We absorb voices we admire. We study techniques. We experiment with styles that resonate with us. That’s part of learning.

    The problem isn’t influence.

    The problem is stopping there.

    Because eventually every artist reaches a point where imitation becomes a limitation. A point where the question shifts from “Who do I sound like?” to “What do I actually have to say?”

    That’s the tension at the center of this piece.

    The speaker isn’t claiming ownership over Gothic imagery, confession, darkness, anxiety, or any of the themes referenced in the poem. Those things belong to countless writers across generations.

    What can’t be copied is the life underneath them.

    The experiences.

    The scars.

    The specific reasons a person reaches for certain images, metaphors, and obsessions.

    Someone can reproduce the shape of a voice.

    But shape is not source.

    That’s why the final lines matter to me.

    The joke is that the speaker becomes so frustrated with imitation that they offer to write the copy themselves.

    But underneath the sarcasm is a quieter observation:

    If you spend all your time trying to become someone else, you’ll never discover what only you could have written.

    And that’s where the most interesting work usually begins.

    Rowan Evans


    A glowing handwritten manuscript surrounded by faded copies of the same page on a dark writing desk.
    Influence teaches the craft. Authenticity creates the voice. A copy can mimic the shape, but never the source.

    Copy of a Copy
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    You carry yourself like a killer.
    Yeah, of vibes—
    You think you’re intimidating?
    You’re not. Just stop.
    You’re embarrassing.

    You’ve had
    zero original thoughts,
    you just parrot me.
    You’re a parody.

    A copy of a copy,
    copied a second time—
    it’s obvious in the rhyme,
    you can see it
    in the quality decline.

    Take your pen
    and try to write like me.

    Gothic lace and confession,
    tinted with depression—
    written by an anxious mind.
    You can copy me
    line for line, rhyme for rhyme
    and I’m sure you’ll find
    it still won’t land right.

    Here—
    let me write for you.
    It’s not like
    that’s not something
    I already do.
    But this time,
    I’ll give the lines to you.


    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Lone Wolf Theology]
    A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [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.

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [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.

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

  • Author’s Note

    This piece started as a joke.

    Or at least, it started with the energy of one.

    I was playing with the idea of a character moving through different fictional universes and refusing every invitation offered to them. No Justice League. No Avengers. No X-Men. No Jedi Order. No chosen destiny. No sacred prophecy.

    Just refusal.

    But as I kept writing, something else emerged.

    The more references I added, the less the poem became about superheroes and the more it became about autonomy.

    Because beneath every fictional universe is usually the same question:

    Who decides who you are?

    A team? A title? A destiny? A prophecy? A god? A system?

    Or you?

    That’s where the title comes from.

    “Lone Wolf Theology” isn’t really about isolation. It’s about self-authorship.

    Not the rejection of connection, but the rejection of surrendering your identity to something external. The refusal to let institutions, expectations, labels, or inherited narratives become the sole authority over your life.

    The superheroes, anti-heroes, and mythic references serve as modern archetypes here. They represent power, belonging, destiny, responsibility, faith, rebellion, and purpose. The speaker moves through those worlds, not because they reject what those symbols represent, but because they refuse to let any one of them define them completely.

    At its core, this piece is about choosing your own path.

    Not because it is easier.

    Not because it guarantees success.

    But because there is something sacred about deciding for yourself who you will become.

    And perhaps that is the real theology hidden beneath all the comic books, capes, and cosmic references:

    Freedom is a practice.

    A choice made repeatedly.

    A vow renewed every time the world tries to tell you who you should be.

    Rowan Evans


    A solitary figure standing on a cliff beneath a star-filled sky surrounded by symbols of mythology, destiny, and freedom.
    No prophecy. No chosen order. No inherited destiny. Only the road ahead and the freedom to decide who you become.

    Lone Wolf Theology
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m a lone wolf, anti‑hero—
    Punisher psychology,
    Frank Castle reality,
    and Deadpool’s mentality.

    Yeah, that’s the fucking recipe.

    Fuck the League (Justice!)
    I don’t need no team,
    there are no Avengers around me.

    I am the evolution of man,
    no X‑Gene. No X team
    in this rhyme scheme.

    I don’t need a Bat‑Signal,
    I light up my own sky.
    Tell Stark I don’t need a suit—
    I’m built different, that’s why.

    Tell Logan I don’t need claws,
    I cut deep with my words.
    Tell Thor I don’t need hammers
    to make thunder heard.

    Fantastic Four?
    I’m fantastic solo.
    Guardians of the Galaxy?
    I guard galaxies dolo.

    Teen Titans?
    I’ve been grown since birth.
    Suicide Squad?
    I don’t need a squad to put you in the dirt.

    Lantern Corps?
    I don’t need a ring to shine.
    I’m the willpower,
    the fear,
    the rage—
    all combined.

    I don’t run with the Speed Force,
    I outrun it.
    Flash chasin’ lightning—
    I become it.

    No timeline can hold me,
    no paradox breaks me.
    Barry hit the wall of time—
    I run through it.

    Spider‑Verse?
    I don’t need a web to connect.
    I cut every thread
    and still command respect.

    Tell Parker I don’t need
    “great power” speeches.
    Tell Miles I don’t need
    a leap of faith to reach this.

    Venom? Carnage?
    I don’t fear their spawn.
    Symbiotes whisper to hosts—
    to me, they speak in song.

    I wear darkness like armor,
    I don’t need it to cling.
    I’m the wolf in the shadows—
    they’re just wearing the skin.

    And the Jedi Order?
    Please.
    I don’t need a council
    to tell me what peace is.

    I don’t need a saber
    to carve out my path.
    I don’t need the Force—
    I am the aftermath.

    No light side.
    No dark side.
    Just my side.
    My creed.
    My theology.

    The lone wolf
    doesn’t join orders—
    he creates one
    by being free.

    In the end,
    there is no order to join,
    no destiny to inherit,
    no prophecy to fulfill.

    There is only the road,
    the breath,
    the choice to rise
    when no one is watching.

    Freedom is not a gift—
    it is a vow whispered in the dark.
    And I keep it.
    Always.

    So write this
    in the margins of every myth:
    I owe nothing to the crowns of men
    or the councils of gods.

    I walk the line between fate and defiance,
    and I do not break—
    I bend the world around me.

    If destiny comes calling,
    tell it to knock louder.
    I don’t follow prophecy.
    I make it bleed
    until it follows me.


    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [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.

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [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.

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

  • Author’s Note

    This piece began as a joke.

    Or at least, I thought it did.

    The opening voice is intentionally playful—awkward, self‑deprecating, a little chaotic, prone to wandering off into side comments before finding its way back again. In many ways, it feels closer to how I actually think than some of my more polished or serious pieces.

    But underneath the humor is something sincere.

    I’ve never been particularly good at saying important things directly. Sometimes vulnerability arrives disguised as a joke. Sometimes affection hides behind wordplay. Sometimes the safest way to admit what you’re feeling is to make someone laugh first.

    The title comes from a simple realization: when I think about certain people, my thoughts tend to orbit the same things.

    Love. Longing. Loyalty.

    The L words.

    And heart.

    The final section is intentionally quieter than everything that comes before it. The jokes fall away, the distractions disappear, and what remains is the truth the speaker was circling the entire time: the way another person can take up space in your imagination, your creativity, and your inner world long before they ever occupy the same physical space.

    Sometimes affection doesn’t arrive as grand declarations.

    Sometimes it arrives as a face that appears when you close your eyes.
    A voice you hear in silence.
    A shoreline you keep finding in your dreams.

    Rowan Evans


    A solitary figure standing on a moonlit shoreline while waves roll in beneath a dreamy twilight sky.
    Some people arrive in your thoughts quietly—then somehow become part of every dream, every poem, and every beat of your heart.

    L Words & Heart
    Poetry by Rowan Evan

    I’m just a quirky, mother—
    not a fighter, but a lover.
    I’m not brave or whatever,
    I bite tongues,
    holding words like lips
    with padlocks.

    I’ve never been a fan of change,
    but I want things to change—
    I want my life rearranged,
    I want to be seen as normal
    not strange—
    I want to be me
    and accepted,
    because I’m not as strange
    as you think—
    I’ve seen Stranger Things.

    (Actually, no I haven’t.
    I never got into the show.
    But I digress…)

    I’ve got things I want to say,
    got things I want you to know.

    When I think about you
    it’s all L words and heart,
    you reshaped my art.
    So I close my eyes
    and I see your face.
    In silence, I hear your voice—
    and in dreams I walk your shores.


    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [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.

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [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.

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

  • Author’s Note

    This piece came from the feeling of recognizing something before you fully understand it.

    Not memory exactly.
    Not déjà vu.
    Something softer and stranger than that.

    I’ve always been fascinated by those moments where emotion arrives before explanation—when a place, a person, or a feeling seems deeply familiar even though you know you’ve never truly experienced it before. Like your mind is brushing against a future version of your life before you’ve physically reached it.

    That became the emotional center of this poem.

    The shifting between bedroom and street, dream and waking, reality and unreality, was meant to feel unstable on purpose. I wanted the speaker to exist in that liminal space where certainty dissolves and longing becomes vivid enough to feel almost tangible.

    Humidity became important while writing too. It creates this physical heaviness throughout the piece—something atmospheric and emotional at the same time. The world feels thick with anticipation, almost electrically alive, as if reality itself is trying to push through the veil separating possibility from arrival.

    And then there’s the ending.

    What mattered to me most was that the final realization isn’t framed as destiny in some grand cosmic sense. It’s quieter than that. More human.

    Not:
    “I remembered her.”

    But:
    “I’m becoming someone capable of reaching that life.”

    That distinction changes everything.

    Because the poem ultimately isn’t about escaping reality.

    It’s about slowly awakening into a future version of yourself that already exists somewhere just beyond fear, distance, uncertainty, and waiting.

    And sometimes the first glimpse of that future arrives like a dream before it arrives like a life.

    Rowan Evans


    A solitary figure stands on a humid city street as a woman emerges through a dreamlike haze of light and atmosphere.
    Some futures arrive first as dreams, waiting quietly just beyond waking.

    Just Beyond Waking
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stood on an unfamiliar street,
    feeling unfamiliar heat—
    skin sweat‑slick.
    I was lost in thought,
    stuck in that spot.
    The air around me buzzed,
    electric with the hum
    of life moving past.

    I’ve felt this before—
    but was it
    dream or memory?
    I don’t know.
    Can’t be sure
    anymore.

    Vision shifts as I drift,
    street fading into bedroom walls.
    The bustling street’s noise—
    just music in my headphones.
    Blink and I’m back again,
    don’t know what to think,
    don’t know what’s happening.

    Back on that unfamiliar street,
    I feel the pull creep—
    so I begin to move my feet,
    one step and then another,
    one foot and then the other.

    Reality is shifting,
    I’m losing grip—
    I’m slipping.
    Don’t know what’s the dream,
    and what’s me
    awakening.

    I trip and stumble,
    almost tumble into the street—
    catch myself at the last second,
    clutching the wall
    as if I might drift away.

    Then I hear it.
    A sound, an echo—
    a voice piercing the silence.
    Eyes scan the room
    as humidity creeps
    across my skin.

    I struggle
    to pull in a breath,
    and again
    the sounds of the city
    surround me.
    Again I’m back
    on that same street—

    but I’m no longer alone.

    As my eyes focus,
    slowly she comes into view.
    A gentle smile
    spreads across her lips—
    a soft touch on my arm,
    a line traced by her fingertips.

    The city hums around us,
    alive, waiting.
    And something in her silence
    steadies the world—
    not familiar,
    but right.
    Not remembered,
    but meant.

    And in that moment
    I understand—
    this isn’t memory,
    isn’t dream,
    but the first soft glimpse
    of a life
    I’m still walking toward,
    waiting for me
    just beyond waking.


    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [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.

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

  • Author’s Note

    This poem started with a voice.

    Not a theme. Not an image. Not a grand idea.

    Just a voice already halfway through a conversation.

    The kind of conversation where someone teases you, calls you crazy, and instead of defending yourself, you laugh because you’ve heard it before.

    A lot of my writing tends to be emotionally heavy, layered, symbolic, or wrapped in larger metaphors. This piece isn’t trying to do any of that.

    It’s intentionally conversational.

    A little sarcastic. A little self-aware. A little chaotic.

    Which, if I’m being honest, isn’t that far removed from how I actually talk.

    What interested me while writing it was the difference between being called strange and being comfortable enough with yourself to stop treating that as an insult.

    The speaker isn’t arguing for normalcy.

    They’re not saying, “No, I’m not weird.”

    They’re basically saying:

    “Yeah. Maybe I am. And?”

    That confidence becomes important because it creates space for the real confession waiting underneath the jokes.

    The poem begins as a defense of individuality, but it ends as a statement of devotion.

    Not because the speaker suddenly becomes serious, but because sincerity sneaks in when they’re not looking.

    And that’s probably my favorite kind of honesty.

    The kind that arrives accidentally.

    The kind that slips past the defenses.

    The kind that shows up disguised as a joke before quietly admitting:

    Of all the people in the world, you’re the one I’d choose.

    Rowan Evans


    Two people sharing a quiet late-night conversation while sunrise begins to glow through a nearby window.
    Sometimes love is not certainty. Sometimes it’s simply choosing someone, again and again.

    It’s You I Choose
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Here we sit, you and I
    deep in conversation—

    you say, “you’re insane,”
    I say “perfectly.”
    Got it tatted on my arm,
    as a reminder—

    I might struggle
    with my mental health,
    but I’m still perfectly myself.

    It’s a pillar
    of my personality.

    They say I’m strange,
    yeah, well I might be.
    That feels highly likely.

    Loyal to a fault—
    line snaps.
    But my devotion
    is unshakeable.

    What I’m trying to say is—

    maybe
    I am crazy,
    but baby—
    it’s you I choose,
    it’s you I couldn’t
    stand to lose.


    Journey into Hexverse…

    [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]

  • Author’s Note

    Some feelings don’t fade with age.

    They sharpen.

    I’ve been writing versions of this poem since I was a teenager, long before I had the language to understand what I was actually trying to say.

    Back then, people treated it like escapism. Wanderlust. Fantasy. A phase.

    But there’s a difference between wanting to travel and feeling fundamentally misaligned with the place you were born into.

    This piece isn’t about hating where I’m from. It’s about disconnection — about spending most of your life emotionally out of sync with the environment around you, while feeling an inexplicable, almost gravitational pull toward places you’ve never physically been.

    For years, I hid that truth behind metaphor. Tokyo alleyways. Neon lights. Foreign streets. Airports. Oceans. Other languages drifting through the background. It was easier to let imagery speak for me than to say the thing outright.

    This poem is me pulling the mask off a little.

    Not to be dramatic.

    Just honest.

    Because after long enough, recurring imagery stops being aesthetic and starts becoming evidence.

    And maybe that’s what poetry has always been for me:

    A compass trying to explain itself.

    Rowan Evans


    A solitary person holding a notebook and compass stands beneath a streetlight while distant neon city lights glow on the horizon.
    I was born here.
    But somewhere along the way, my compass started pointing elsewhere.

    The Needle Doesn’t Point North
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I have been sitting with this
    for most of my life.

    I’ve talked about it before.

    I’ve written it,
    more times than I can count—
    since I was fourteen
    I’ve wanted out.

    I was told,
    “it’s a kid’s fantasy,”
    just a phase I’d outgrow.

    But here I am at thirty-six,
    still dreaming of distant shores.

    The soil may have shifted
    over the years,
    but the pull remained the same.

    Growing up
    with this feeling stuck
    in the pit of my gut,

    do you know what that’s like?

    To never feel like you fit,
    always out of place.

    But everyone around you
    doesn’t see it—

    they see a teen
    being difficult,
    notebook clutched
    with plans
    scribbled inside.

    These weren’t just poems—
    they were escape routes
    written in code,
    only I could read.

    I wrote about Tokyo’s streets
    and walking through alleyways—

    masked in metaphors,
    buried in similes—

    I’ve written about Beijing,
    and Shanghai,
    with nocturnal trips
    to Seoul.

    But I’ve never
    said it so plain.

    I was born here,
    so I’m from here—
    but I don’t feel connected,
    I’m not of here.

    American mouth,
    global mind—

    been this way
    since seventeen.

    Shh—
    I went quiet,
    but the fire
    wasn’t silent.

    I could hear it speak,
    it was urging me.

    Eighteen came and went,
    nineteen too.

    I could still feel
    the pull—
    but it was different now.

    Deeper.
    Stronger.
    More mature.

    Twenty, twenty-one,
    twenty-two, twenty-three—
    four more years,
    still stuck.

    Not trapped.

    New destination appeared—
    and it’s been the same since.

    I’ve said it before,
    the needle
    doesn’t point north—

    body in the west,
    puso sa silangan.


    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Weather in My Chest]
    “Weather in My Chest” is a free verse poem about emotional hyperawareness, social tension, and the quiet experience of carrying internal storms into rooms that react before a single word is spoken.

    [Sound as a Vessel]
    “Sound as a Vessel” is a free verse poem about music as emotional architecture, exploring how international artists and soundscapes shaped identity, creativity, memory, and poetic voice.

    [Just Knowing You Has Been Enough]
    “Just Knowing You Has Been Enough” is a deeply vulnerable free verse poem about unspoken love, emotional fear, coded confessions, and the quiet truth of caring for someone without needing perfection in return.

    [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.

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

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

  • Author’s Note

    Some people can walk into a room and never notice the atmosphere change.

    I’ve never been one of them.

    I notice tone shifts, silence, tension, body language, eye contact, emotional static—sometimes before a word is even spoken. Rooms have always felt alive to me in that way, almost like weather systems with their own pressure and temperature.

    For a long time, I thought that sensitivity meant something was wrong with me.

    But over time, I realized I wasn’t imagining things. I was just noticing things other people either missed or ignored.

    This piece came from that feeling: walking into spaces and immediately sensing the emotional climate shift around you.

    Not because you’re dangerous. Not because you want attention.

    But because some people carry storms quietly, and other people instinctively react to the pressure.

    The important part is this:

    Not every storm is destructive.

    Sometimes thunder is just thunder. Sometimes lightning never comes.

    Rowan Evans


    A solitary figure stands quietly in a crowded room as storm clouds and atmospheric tension subtly gather around them.
    Some people don’t bring storms into rooms—they just notice the pressure before everyone else does.

    Weather in My Chest
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I enter rooms and I can feel
    the weather shift,
    the emotion gets thick
    like humidity—
    and the temperature
    begins to rise.

    And eyes
    move like clouds
    across the sky
    as they follow me.

    Drifting toward
    the horizon line,
    at the edge of the room.

    I can hear the whispers
    rumble like thunder,
    as the questions
    begin to spin.

    “What are they doing here?”
    “Who invited them?”

    I’ve learned
    to stand still
    in the middle of it,
    let the noise
    break around me
    like rain on concrete.

    “Why are they so quiet?”
    “Are they judging us?”

    They don’t know
    I’m not here
    to bring the storm—

    I just carry weather
    in my chest,
    and rooms react
    how they react.

    I’m not the danger
    they whisper about—

    I’m just the one
    who notices
    the temperature
    before anyone else does.

    They don’t realize
    I’ve felt this
    my whole life—
    rooms shifting,
    eyes gathering,
    like weather
    drawn to heat.

    I feel the pressure
    drop behind me,
    the way people tense
    like they’re waiting—

    for lightning
    that never comes.


    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Sound as a Vessel]
    “Sound as a Vessel” is a free verse poem about music as emotional architecture, exploring how international artists and soundscapes shaped identity, creativity, memory, and poetic voice.

    [Just Knowing You Has Been Enough]
    “Just Knowing You Has Been Enough” is a deeply vulnerable free verse poem about unspoken love, emotional fear, coded confessions, and the quiet truth of caring for someone without needing perfection in return.

    [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.

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

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

  • Author’s Note

    Music has always been more than background noise to me.

    It’s emotional architecture.

    There are songs that feel tied to specific versions of myself, specific periods of my life, specific emotional states I don’t know how to explain outside of sound.

    When I write, I usually start with music first. Not ideas. Not themes. Feeling.

    I sit in silence with headphones on and let the music guide me somewhere emotionally honest.

    This piece came from thinking about how deeply international my creative influences really are.

    A lot of the sounds that shaped me came from places I’ve never physically been: the Philippines, South Korea, Japan, Thailand.

    And over time, those influences stopped feeling external. They became part of my emotional language.

    Part of my rhythm. Part of my imagery. Part of how I understand myself creatively.

    Also: yes, “Morning Daughters” is intentional.

    It’s a poetic translation of the J-pop group Morning Musume because the translated phrasing fit the cadence of the piece better.

    That felt appropriate for a poem about translation, transformation, and reshaping influence into something personal.

    Because that’s ultimately what art is.

    Taking in sound, emotion, memory, culture— and turning it into your own voice.

    Rowan Evans


    A poet wearing headphones sits surrounded by music, poetry pages, and dreamlike international city lights blending together.
    Some people travel by plane.
    I travel by sound.

    Sound as a Vessel
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I want to take a moment
    to talk about process—

    the way I’ll sit
    in silence,
    with nothing
    but the sound
    from my headphones.

    I sit, unmoved
    and let the music
    wrap around me.

    I let it guide my emotion
    and lead me where it may.

    This is when I reach
    across shores,
    ignoring borders—

    I reach for the sounds
    that soothe me,
    the sounds that move me
    and make me feel.

    I follow the notes
    like they’re breadcrumbs—

    back to the places
    my body has never lived
    but my heart remembers.

    This is how I travel—

    how I return
    to the versions of myself
    I haven’t met yet.

    I put my headphones on
    and drift away—

    through different worlds,
    from XG to Young Ji—
    MILLI and 4EVE.

    Then I drift back—
    MC Sniper, Outsider
    and Drunken Tiger.

    It’s like I walk
    through time,
    using sound
    as the vessel.

    Then I hit Japan,
    Morning Daughters
    surround me.
    Up next THE GAZETTE,
    then Hamasaki Ayumi. (Queen!)

    These are the sounds
    that shaped my DNA.

    Eminem lit the fire,
    Ez Mil made it brighter.

    I broke teeth
    on Lee Hyori. (Queen!)

    And I’ve expanded,
    put more colors
    on the canvas.

    More lines
    in my rhymes.

    BINI, SB
    19 and G22
    Hev Abi, Skusta Clee,
    Sarah Geronimo too—

    just to change the shape
    of the soundscape.

    I use sound like paint
    to make pictures,
    mix it with my emotions
    to find the perfect hue.


    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Just Knowing You Has Been Enough]
    “Just Knowing You Has Been Enough” is a deeply vulnerable free verse poem about unspoken love, emotional fear, coded confessions, and the quiet truth of caring for someone without needing perfection in return.

    [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.

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

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