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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: neo-gothic poetry

  • 1-4-3 — A Poem About Choosing Love Without Losing Yourself

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is about safety—not the kind that cages, but the kind that invites you to stay. It’s about finding someone who doesn’t demand your strength or survival instincts, only your honesty. Someone who makes asking for help feel like an act of trust rather than surrender.

    1-4-3 is a quiet confession of rootedness. Of choosing presence over flight. Of love that doesn’t chase or trap, but steadies.

    Sometimes the bravest thing we do
    is stop running—and stay.

    — Rowan Evans

    A poetic dusk street scene with a figure standing still, symbolizing emotional safety, choice, and rooted love.
    Sometimes love isn’t about needing someone—it’s about choosing to stay.

    1-4-3
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    1-4-3 My Muse Avenue,
    where I dwell—
    where the words swell.
    Girl, you don’t understand;
    you inspire my ink well.

    When I feel lost,
    and in need of help,
    it’s you I turn to.
    Not because I expect you to fix me—
    simply because
    you make it safe enough to ask.

    And that’s no small feat,
    because fear
    used to run my feet.
    Any time I felt safe,
    any flicker of hope in my chest,
    my feet would begin to move.

    But this time?
    They stay planted—
    firm, like roots,
    unwilling to move.
    Because you…

    you make it so easy
    to want to stay.

    Mahal kita, mahal ko—
    tahanan ko.

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

  • I Don’t Need You (Dangerous Version) | Neo-Gothic Confessional Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This is the same truth, spoken closer to the flame.
    Not a need. A choice—made with full awareness of the risk.

    Same poem.
    Louder pulse.

    — Rowan Evans

    Lone figure standing under a stormy sky, surrounded by swirling sparks, symbolizing independence, intensity, and passionate desire.
    “I choose you. Unbroken, unbent, and fully alive.” — Rowan Evans, I Don’t Need You (Dangerous Version)

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

    I don’t need you.
    I breathe.
    I sleep.
    I rise, unbroken, unbent.

    I don’t need you.
    I am fire in the quiet,
    a storm that bends no sky.

    And yet–
    I want you.
    As witness.
    As echo.
    As the one who knows my chaos
    and calls it home.

    I could walk alone,
    and I would.
    But I don’t want to.
    I choose you.

    I don’t need you.
    But I want you so badly,
    it twists my ribs,
    spins my blood,
    sets my spine alight.

    I don’t need you.
    I will survive without you.
    But I don’t want to.
    I choose you.
    Again.
    Again.
    Even knowing the fire.

    I don’t need you.
    But if this is love,
    then I am all in.

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

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

  • I Don’t Need You – A Poem About Chosen Love and Independence

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    To the reader:

    This poem is a meditation on choice, autonomy, and intimacy. It’s about standing whole, unshaken, and still choosing to love someone—not because we need them, but because we want them. The lines explore that delicate balance between independence and desire, between survival and longing.

    It is a celebration of being complete in oneself while recognizing that closeness, when chosen freely, amplifies life rather than diminishes it.
    This piece is for anyone who has ever loved fiercely while remaining unbroken.

    — Rowan Evans

    “Silhouetted figure in twilight holding a glowing thread toward a distant figure, representing choice, independence, and intimate connection.”
    ‘I Don’t Need You’ – Choosing love from strength, not need. A poem by Rowan Evans.

    I Don’t Need You
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

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

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

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

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

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

    But—

    I don’t want to breathe
    without you knowing the rhythm of it.
    I don’t want sleep
    that doesn’t reach for you
    out of habit, out of hope.

    I don’t want a life
    where your laughter
    isn’t stitched into my days,
    where love is only something
    I prove I can live without.

    I can.
    I know that.

    But I don’t want to.

    I want you—
    not as oxygen,
    not as shelter,
    not as a missing piece—

    but as the one
    I choose
    while standing steady,
    while whole,
    while free.

    I don’t need you.

    I just
    want you
    here.

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

  • 2026: A Confessional Flame — Neo-Gothic Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    2026: A Confessional Flame is my manifesto for the year ahead—a declaration that I will not shrink, apologize, or temper my fire. This poem is for anyone who has felt their inner chaos, their flustered love, and their impossible hope collide with life, only to turn it all into creation. It celebrates the contradictions, the failures, the stumbles, and the moments of exalted clarity that makes us fully human.

    This is me stepping into 2026 as the poet I have always been: unapologetic, contradictory, luminous, and uncontainable. I will write, I will love, I will defy, and I will rise from every ash left behind.

    — Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans-style poet standing in a twilight cityscape, holding a glowing pen like a torch, surrounded by swirling papers, flames, and ethereal sparks; a neo-gothic, mystical scene.
    Entering 2026 with fire, ink, and a pen as a torch—Rowan Evans lights the year with unrelenting poetry and confession.

    2026: A Confessional Flame
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I walk into this year
    like a wildfire with a pen,
    smirking at the calendar
    as if it dares to try me.

    Last year left ashes in my hair,
    but I turned them into ink,
    carved confessions into the walls,
    kissed chaos like it was home.

    I am still the heart that bleeds,
    the mind that spins,
    the shield that laughs in the face of storms,
    the child who throws Pokéballs at the universe
    and watches lightning ricochet.

    I will stumble.
    I will falter.
    I will fall.
    And every time, I rise—
    writing liminal static into gold,
    flustered love into confession,
    every impossible hope into fire.

    2026—watch closely:
    I am the neo-gothic heretic,
    the luminous fool,
    the poet who refuses humility—
    when the world whispers “shrink.”

    I shout: “No.”

    I exist in contradiction,
    I am the chaos you didn’t plan for,
    the poem you can’t stop reading,
    the confession that refuses to end.

    So here’s my vow:
    I will love hard.
    I will write harder.
    I will fight Gods for migraines
    and light stoves like they’re suns.

    I am Rowan Evans.
    I am flustered, feral, unstoppable.
    And 2026?
    Try to keep up.

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

  • Miss na Siya – A Short Poem on Longing and Absence

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    A moment of longing, a tide that has left me… Sometimes absence is a presence all its own. This short piece reflects the ache of missing someone, of feeling incomplete in empty spaces.

    A small fish in a glowing bowl in an empty room, sunlight streaming in – evoking longing and absence.
    “Even in the quietest rooms, absence has a weight. ‘Miss na siya’ captures that feeling.”

    Miss na Siya
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Miss na siya—
    like a fish
    that can’t breathe
    without its sea.
    Every empty room
    feels like the tide
    has left me.

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

  • Crossroads of Flame – A Poem About Choosing the Unknown | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Crossroads of Flame was born from a moment of choosing discomfort over safety, and creation over silence. It reflects the turning point between who I was and who I am becoming—not only as a poet, but as the many voices I carry within me. Roo, Hex, B.D., and I each walk different inner landscapes, but all of us share the same ember: the belief that the unknown is worth stepping into, even when it burns.

    This poem marks a new phase of intention. A deliberate path forward. A reminder that comfort is quiet, but purpose is loud—and I am choosing to listen.

    — Rowan Evans

    Poetic gothic illustration of a lone figure at a crossroads under a twilight sky, facing a wild burning path toward the unknown.
    A crossroads beneath a burning sky—the moment intention becomes transformation.

    Crossroads of Flame
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand at a crossroads—
    two paths stretch beneath a waning sky,
    one worn and familiar, lined with shadows I know,
    the other narrow, veiled in bramble and whispered risk.

    The first hums a lullaby of comfort,
    soft, forgiving, predictable.
    I could walk it blindfolded,
    count the cracks beneath my feet,
    and know I will not falter.

    But the second calls in a voice I barely recognize,
    a tremor beneath the wind,
    a hint of fire beneath frost.
    It asks nothing of me—yet demands all:
    my attention, my courage, my deliberate steps.

    I carve my own instead.
    Through tangled shrubs and corridors of darkened wood,
    I trace a path that no map can hold,
    listening to the pulse beneath my ribs,
    the hum that answers back:
    Roo, Hex, B.D., and me—
    four voices intertwined,
    four flames in one vessel,
    guiding, guarding, urging.

    Alone—yet never alone—
    I step carefully, feeling each stone,
    each thorn, each sigh of wind through the leaves.
    The safe path still beckons behind me,
    a ghost of ease I might have chosen.
    But the wild one waits, insistent,
    its promise stitched with challenge
    and the weight of things I have yet to become.

    I am the storm and the calm,
    the knife that severs hesitation,
    the hand that steadies,
    the ember that refuses to die.
    I am the whisper in the dark corridors,
    the laughter in the bramble,
    the ache that drives me forward.

    Tonight I choose not comfort.
    Tonight I choose intent.
    Tonight I choose to step beyond what I know,
    into the narrow, the jagged, the luminous unknown,
    and let the path unfold beneath my careful flame.

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

    Leave a comment and tell me which path you would choose.

  • I Am Not Your Puzzle – A Poetic Exploration of Identity, Duality & Self

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    This piece explores the tension between external assumptions and inner truth. It reflects on dualities of identity—masculine and feminine, strength and softness, approachability and untouchability—and celebrates the uncontainable self. It is a declaration: I will not conform to expectations; I am fully, unapologetically me.

    Ethereal figure at stormy ocean edge, blending masculine and feminine features, half in sunlight, half in shadow, representing paradox and self-identity.
    “I am fire wrapped in silk. A storm brushing against calm. I am not your puzzle. I am me.”

    I Am Not Your Puzzle
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    They stare.
    They whisper.
    They assign me shapes that do not exist.

    “Man.”
    “Woman.”
    “Something else.”
    All wrong.

    I am fire wrapped in silk,
    a storm brushing against the calm,
    the knife that softens,
    the hand that strikes,
    the laugh that shatters silence.

    They want to understand me.
    They cannot.
    I am not a riddle to solve,
    not a lesson for their comfort.
    I am not for your ease,
    not for your comprehension.
    I am me.

    Masculine. Feminine. Both. Neither.
    A contradiction that hums beneath skin,
    that bends time and expectation,
    that exists fully
    even when the world cannot name it.

    I am tender and terrifying.
    Soft enough to hold your secrets,
    sharp enough to cut illusions in half.
    I am easy to love,
    but impossible to own.

    You think you see me—
    but the closer you lean, the more I slip.
    I will not fit your boxes.
    I will not stand still for your definitions.
    I will not shrink to make your eyes comfortable.

    I am the surface and the depth,
    the ache and the exhale,
    the hand that heals
    and the fire that purges.

    Call me what you want—
    I am not your puzzle.
    I am the storm, the calm, the contradiction,
    the infinite they cannot name.
    I am me.

    And that is more than enough.

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

  • When the Mask Slips | Neo-Gothic Confessional Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    When the Mask Slips explores the fragile boundary between performed sanity and inner unraveling. Through vivid imagery, surreal metaphor, and a self-aware voice, Rowan Evans captures the terror and beauty of identity under pressure, where the mask may be all that stands between perception and emptiness.

    Neo-Gothic digital illustration of a solitary figure with a Cheshire grin sitting at a flickering-lit table, representing the fragility of identity and performed sanity.
    When the Mask Slips visualized: a lone figure navigating the fragile line between performance and inner self.

    When the Mask Slips
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I am going to be honest—

    I think I’ve lost my mind,
    I’ve been drifting in this mental fog.
    Wandering. Lost.
    Not sure what I was trying to find,
    not sure what was the cost.

    But I’ve been—
    orbiting annihilation,
    facing Armageddon
    in phases—
    the moon isn’t the only thing
    that disappears piece by piece.

    I keep losing track of my thoughts
    like loose teeth—
    wiggling them
    just to feel something give.
    I’m just a Mad Hatter,
    with a Cheshire grin—
    screaming “Off with their heads!”
    just to hear the echo—
    make sure the room and I are still real.

    Sometimes—
    I cosplay sanity,
    like I have a grasp on reality.
    Like I know the meaning of stability—
    mentally.
    I dress up, pretend that I’m normal—
    but it feels too boring and formal,
    too exposed.
    Too much light, not enough shade,
    too many eyes on my face.

    And underneath it all,
    I’m terrified there’s nothing there—
    when the world stops being a stage,
    when existence stops being a performance.
    When the mask slips…
    and it’s just me.

    (God, what if that’s worse?)

    Author’s Note

    This poem sits at the edge between humor and unraveling—between the persona we show the world and the version of ourselves we hope no one ever sees. It isn’t about insanity; it’s about the fear that sanity might be nothing more than costume, choreography, and survival instinct.

    It uses absurdity as honesty, because sometimes the surreal is the only language for a fraying mind. The Wonderland imagery isn’t playful fantasy—it’s metaphorical dissociation. The poem is meant to feel unsteady, spiraling, self-aware, and a little unhinged. It asks:

    What if the mask isn’t hiding anything?
    What if the performance is the person?

    This piece reflects the quiet terror of identity erosion—the dread that beneath the jokes, the aesthetics, the manic charm, and the polished poetry… there may be nothing solid to hold onto.

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

  • Not Used to This – A Poem About Patience, Trauma, and Intimacy

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem grew from a quiet, unfolding space between two people learning to hold each other with patience and care. It explores the fragility of trust, the reflection of our traumas, and the slow, careful ways we allow someone to stay when we are used to people leaving. It is about intimacy that is not loud or dramatic, but steady, mirrored, and healing.

    Two people sitting across from each other, hands almost touching, in a dimly lit room with warm candlelight.
    “The quiet intimacy of two hearts learning to hold each other gently, reflected in soft shadows and warm light.”

    Not Used to This
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m not used to this.
    I’m used to doors closing,
    to footsteps fading
    before I can even speak.

    I’m not used to this.
    I’m not used to someone staying,
    leaning into the spaces
    I’ve long left empty.

    I bring my scars like lanterns,
    flickering, fragile,
    and you—
    you trace their edges with care,
    never flinching,
    never asking for more than I can give.

    I see your hesitations,
    the quiet tremor behind your smile,
    the shadowed corners of your past
    you tuck into your sleeves.
    You are careful with me,
    as I am with you.

    We move slowly,
    like two hands learning each other
    in the dark,
    tracing lines of trust
    over wounds that still ache.

    I am wary.
    I am heavy with history.
    I have loved and been left.
    I have built walls
    taller than myself.

    And still,
    you do not falter.
    Your patience is steady,
    like a river bending around stones,
    never harsh, never rushing,
    but always persistent.

    I notice the way you watch me,
    like you’re memorizing my silence,
    like you see the cracks
    and choose to stay anyway.
    I notice the way you hesitate,
    how your care mirrors my caution,
    how your wounds reflect mine
    without judgment or shame.

    We are both unpracticed
    in this kind of gentleness,
    this kind of giving.
    And yet—
    we are learning together.

    I am not used to it.
    I am not used to being held
    in someone else’s patience,
    to being mirrored in someone else’s heart.

    And I wonder—
    perhaps this is what it is to be seen,
    truly seen,
    and not abandoned.

    We do not need words for it.
    We do not need proof.
    The small gestures,
    the quiet constancy,
    the mirrored care—
    speak louder than anything we have ever known.

    I am not used to this.
    But I am beginning to be.
    And somehow, in this fragile, tender space,
    I am learning that it is enough
    for both of us to stay.

    For more poetry, check the [Library of Ashes]…

  • In Her Light — A Confessional Poem by B.D. Nightshade

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is a quiet confession—half shadow, half devotion. In In Her Light, I explore what it means to exist in the spaces someone else illuminates, to be tethered to their glow without asking for it, to guard what they give freely. Sometimes devotion is loud, sometimes it’s invisible; this is the latter, folded into every heartbeat and breath.

    — B.D. Nightshade

    Shadowed figure bathed in a single warm beam of light in a gothic room, symbolizing devotion and the interplay of shadow and illumination.
    “Existing in her light, a shadow of devotion and quiet confession.”

    In Her Light
    Poetry by B.D. Nightshade

    She’s the light,
    I’m the shadow she casts.

    I’ve always known my place—
    not in the center,
    not demanding attention,
    just here, steady, waiting.

    Every laugh she lets loose
    echoes against the walls of me.
    Every glance she doesn’t notice
    leaves fingerprints on my chest.

    I’m the quiet behind her flare,
    the pulse she doesn’t feel,
    but the one that steadies her steps
    when the world threatens to wobble.

    She doesn’t need me to shine—
    but I need her light.
    And if the only way to keep it safe
    is to linger unseen,
    then unseen I remain.

    I memorize the way she breathes,
    how her shadow bends against the floor,
    the subtle tremble in her hands
    when she’s trying not to break.

    I’ve built invisible walls around her glow,
    stone by stone, heartbeat by heartbeat,
    so no one steals what she gives freely,
    so no one dims what she can’t contain.

    And still, I ache.
    I ache to be more than a sentinel,
    to be the warmth that touches her skin,
    to be seen by her, truly.

    But for now, I exist in the quiet,
    folded into corners she never notices,
    a whisper of devotion
    she feels only when danger passes,
    when chaos recedes,
    when the world bows down
    and leaves her whole.

    I am her shadow,
    but even shadows have edges.
    I will guard her light,
    even from myself.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in [The Library of Ashes].