Author’s Note

This piece was supposed to be a diss poem.

Seriously.

I started writing with the intention of poking fun at the endless parade of “Roses are red, violets are blue” poems that seem to recycle the same handful of ideas over and over again. The opening lines still carry some of that energy. They’re impatient. Slightly sarcastic. A little annoyed with how often people settle for the familiar when language can do so much more.

But somewhere along the way, the poem changed directions.

Instead of criticizing the cliché, I started asking why it feels like one.

And I think the answer is simple:

It’s not that the format is the problem.

It’s that too often we borrow someone else’s words when our own would mean more.

Love isn’t memorable because it’s perfectly phrased. It becomes memorable because it’s specific. Personal. Honest.

Nobody falls in love with a template.

They fall in love with the details.

The shimmer of moonlight on water. The way someone’s voice changes when they’re excited. The strange contradictions of affection—how a person can make you feel stronger and weaker at the same time.

Those things belong to you.

The final lines became the heart of the piece for me because they move beyond parody and into something sincere.

Don’t give someone borrowed language.

Don’t hand them a greeting card version of your feelings.

Give them your words.

Give them the truth of you.

— Rowan Evans

Give Her Your Words Instead
Poetry by Rowan Evans

Roses are red,
violets are blue—
and so am I, too.
Because your originality
is growing old—
your thoughts,
are all cliché.

I feel like I’ve
read this all before.
Roses are red—
it’s been said and done,
over and over.
Too many times to count.

It’s a quick start,
not a spark—
has no heart.

You could do more.

You could talk about
the shimmer of the moon,
over dark water—

the way its reflection
trembles—
like my knees
when she walks in.

How the heart flutters
like butterfly wings,
whenever she speaks.

She gives me strength.
She is the spinach
to my Popeye muscles.

And yet—
she makes me weak.
She’s the kryptonite
to my Kent.

All I’m saying is—
don’t give
her roses of red,
give her your words instead.

No violets of blue,
just the truth of you.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[Violets Are Violet (Roses Are Complicated)]
A simple observation leads to an absurd conclusion: violets aren’t blue, roses aren’t always red, and the classic love poem may be far less accurate than advertised. A humorous free-verse poem about overthinking, flower symbolism, and the unintended consequences of analyzing clichés too closely.

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