Sometimes the loudest hater in the room is the one you brought with you.
Walk-A-Block in Flames started with the idea of imaginary critics—the voices that somehow manage to find fault with everything you do, even when nobody else is actually saying a damn thing. Naturally, my brain decided the appropriate response was to turn that internal conflict into a ridiculous walk around the block, throw in some wordplay, and see how many times I could make the joke work before the poem eventually turned the joke back on me.
Because beneath all the flames, bravado, and fake enemies, there’s a much simpler realization:
Sometimes the person I’m arguing with is me.
And honestly?
That’s probably the funniest part.
— Rowan Evans
Plot twist: the haters were imaginary, and unfortunately, they had my voice.
Walk-A-Block in Flames Poetry by Rowan Evans
They tell me,
these imaginary haters,
that I’ve fuckin’ created—
they live inside my head,
feeding on my self-doubt—
obsessed with burning the self-down.
They make me take a walk,
a walk around a block
and it’s fucking hot—
I guess you could say,
these imaginary haters made me,
Waka Flocka Flame.
Wait—
I meant to say—
these haters made me
Walk-A-Block In Flames.
Honestly though,
I don’t know
what the fuck
they hate me for—
Is it because my wrist froze?
Nope, I’m broke—
Because I’m the best to ever do it?
Nope, that’s a joke—
Is it because they say
the things I think about me?
Couldn’t be—
because I think I’m great,
and these haters are fake.
I mean literally fake,
figments—
they don’t exist,
it’s just me in this bitch.
Some thoughts don’t arrive quietly. They repeat, build momentum, and turn themselves into a soundtrack you never asked to hear.
The Strings Won’t Stop takes that experience and gives it a physical sound: violins playing somewhere inside an empty room, each note feeding the fear and keeping the loop alive. The speaker isn’t asking for a beautiful song—they’re asking for silence, for one interruption in the pattern, one change in tempo that might finally give the mind somewhere else to go.
Sometimes the hardest part isn’t finding the words.
It’s getting the strings to stop playing them.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the mind doesn’t need another song. It needs the strings to stop.
The Strings Won’t Stop Poetry by Rowan Evans
I sit in an empty room,
listening to the haunting cry
of violins—
I’m just longing
for silence—
but the strings
sing for me—
they sing a song
I don’t want to hear,
it amplifies the fear—
it makes me wonder,
what am I doing here?
But they don’t stop—
the strings sing
and they watch—
I sit in the corner,
and I rock—
back and forth,
listening for the chorus,
or something to break
the loop—
a tempo switch,
a cadence change—
something,
anything
to rearrange
the thoughts in my brain.
Journey into the Hexverse
[A Person First] A poem about the difference between loving a woman and loving the role someone expects her to play—because partnership requires respect, autonomy, and room to remain a person first.
[Half a Picture] What happens when someone falls in love with the person they discover through your poetry? Half a Picture explores the strange intimacy between writer and reader—and the distance between seeing someone’s mind through their words and truly knowing the whole person.
[If You Want to Go] When conversations become nothing more than repeated excuses, sometimes the only answer left is to stop pretending. A raw, direct poem about emotional exhaustion, frustration, and the difficult freedom of letting someone walk away.
Some people assume that because I write confessional poetry, vulnerability comes naturally to me.
It doesn’t.
My first instinct is almost always to make a joke.
If something hurts, I’ll reach for humor. If something feels too exposed, I’ll bury it beneath a cartoon reference, a comic book nod, or a punchline that arrives just before the truth does.
This poem is about that instinct.
It explores the strange contradiction at the center of my writing: I’m willing to confess almost anything—as long as I can disguise it first.
The title, 5:01, marks another early morning when my thoughts were moving faster than I could organize them. And “Pull the Punchline Back” became my way of describing what happens when I realize I’ve hidden behind humor for just a second too long.
Sometimes the joke protects me.
Sometimes it prevents me from saying what I actually mean.
This poem lives somewhere between those two realities.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the hardest part of confession isn’t finding the words—it’s resisting the joke that tries to replace them.
5:01 (Pull the Punchline Back) Poetry by Rowan Evans
5:01—
the morning comes
and my thoughts run,
like a marathon.
You see—
most the time
my thoughts move quick,
like a sprint—
Usain?
No, insane.
I bolt when I feel
I care too much—
here the vulnerability comes,
so where’s the joke at?
I got to hide that—
pull the punchline back.
I put a brave face on—
they call me Courage,
even though
I’m a cowardly dog.
Isn’t it funny?
I’m a confessional poet,
but I hide the confession
behind a wall of jokes—
and cartoon references—
can’t forget the comic books.
The page is a phone booth,
I go into to change—
but I’m not trying to be a hero here,
there’s no S on my chest.
I’m just here for those
that are stressed and struggling.
And this is my problem,
I’ve got my own problems,
then I take mo’ problems,
they were yo’ problems—
now I’m juggling.
The sad thing is—
the whole time
this is what my mind
has been running from.
It’s incredible—
how fast I Dash,
gone in a Flash,
like I ran to the past
to escape—
everything I want.
Connection.
Reflection.
So I keep my feet moving
until I get where I’m going,
and I’m not showin’—
no signs of slowin’.
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.
[Tots, Rocks and All] What begins as a surreal collection of tater tots, rocks, comic book references, and runaway thoughts slowly reveals something much quieter: a poem about creativity, vulnerability, and the simple hope of finding someone willing to hold your heart.
[Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)] What begins as a surreal collection of tater tots, rocks, comic book references, and runaway thoughts slowly reveals something much quieter: a poem about creativity, vulnerability, and the simple hope of finding someone willing to hold your heart.
[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.
[No You and I, Only Us] A hopeful free verse poem about empathy, borders, and imagining a world where humanity matters more than division.
Which, admittedly, is not a revelation likely to change the course of human history.
But once I started thinking about it, the entire cliché began to unravel.
Because roses aren’t always red either.
And then I found myself researching flower symbolism, color meanings, and all the ways a four-line nursery-rhyme structure completely falls apart under even the mildest amount of scrutiny.
At some point, the poem stopped being about flowers.
It became about overthinking.
About taking a perfectly functional piece of language and pulling on a loose thread until the entire sweater comes apart in your hands.
Which, if I’m being honest, describes a significant percentage of my writing process.
What makes me laugh about this piece is that it starts as a correction and ends as a complaint.
Not about roses.
Not about violets.
About the format itself.
Because the more precise and accurate I tried to make the original cliché, the more impossible it became to actually say anything romantic.
Eventually I arrived at the only logical conclusion:
Roses are complicated.
Violets are violet.
And sometimes analysis is the natural predator of romance.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the quickest way to ruin a cliché is to fact-check it. Roses are complicated. Violets are violet. Romance may never recover. 🌹💜
Violets Are Violet (Roses Are Complicated) Poetry by Rowan Evans
Roses are red,
violets aren’t blue.
Also roses
aren’t always red.
Red is the classic:
romance, true love
and passion.
Pink conveys
gratitude, grace,
joy and admiration.
Yellow denotes
friendship, joy,
warmth and caring.
White represents
innocence,
purity, youth
and new beginnings.
And there’s at least
four more—
Coral, Peach,
Lavender and Orange.
So I guess
what I’m trying
to say is—
Roses
come in an assortment of colors,
Violets are violet—
and this format
makes romance hard.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[It’s Just Me but Super] A playful free-verse poem about cartoons, imagination, cosmic wanderings, and the strange magic of creativity. Through wordplay, nostalgia, and absurd humor, Rowan Evans explores what happens when ordinary life meets an extraordinary imagination.
[100 Grand and a Book Deal] A playful collision of candy bars, comic book heroes, basketball legends, and cosmic metaphors. Beneath the jokes lies a reflection on twenty-three years of writing, creativity, and the dream of building something lasting one line at a time.
[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.
This piece sits at the intersection of introspection and escape.
Writing has always been where I process things–where thoughts loop, where patterns reveal themselves, where I can be honest in ways that don’t always come out loud.
But there’s also a point where reflection turns into restlessness.
Where you stop asking why you feel this way and start asking where do I go from here?
The coordinates in this piece are real.
Not just as a location–but as intention.
A direction. A choice.
Because sometimes the only way to break the loop is to move.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the way forward isn’t a thought—it’s a direction.
Coordinates of Escape Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m in my head,
all the time—
introspective
when I rhyme.
I’m honest,
turn the page
into a confessional.
The page listens
when I speak in ink—
poetry captures the dance
at the brink,
as thoughts loop—
the thoughts loops,
repeating what I think.
It makes me feel weak—
the way my thoughts
get under my own skin.
Why am I so fixated on the end,
when really I want to restart—
reset, begin again…
Two feet on distant shores,
eyes focused—looking forward,
toward the future—
with my back to the past.
I’ll touchdown—
121 degrees East
of the Prime Meridian,
14 degrees and 36 minutes
North of the Equator.
If you know where that is,
you’ll know where to find me.
It’s goodbye,
no see you later.
Journey into the Hexverse!
[The Voice in the Haze] A wandering dream, a voice that feels like memory, and a moment where everything quiets just enough to be found.
[Right Behind My Eyes] A raw and introspective poem exploring dissociation, emotional distance, and the grounding power of love. Right Behind My Eyes captures the feeling of watching your life from afar—and what keeps you from disappearing completely.
Patterns, thoughts, loops–they can feel inescapable, like walking through the same place over and over again, no matter how far you think you’ve gone.
Bad Habit is about recognizing those patterns in real time. Not after the fact, not with clarity or distance–but while you’re still standing inside them.
It’s the moment of awareness.
And the quiet decision to not disappear into it.
— Rowan Evans
Some patterns don’t break—they repeat.
Bad Habit Poetry by Rowan Evans
I feel like I’m running in place,
my feet move but I go nowhere.
Terrain’s all the same,
it never changes.
All the trees
in the same place.
All the people
with the same face.
Dreams, perhaps—
or maybe a nightmare?
My mind,
it doesn’t fight fair.
So I’m stuck here.
Wandering,
lost in my mind—
pondering,
you know I have questions.
I was just wondering—
if I reached my hand out,
would you grab it?
Pull me back
from this static?
I know it’s not you
that I’m talking to,
but my brain
paints you so vivid.
So I let myself take time,
I let myself live it.
It’s all inside my mind,
dreams, perhaps
or maybe nightmare.
Maybe it pulls me in,
and wants to keep me there.
Like a ghost of despair,
trying to get me to—
disappear.
But I’m not going
anywhere.
Once I’ve climbed
out of my mind,
and back into the world.
Back into myself,
into clear mental health.
No more fog,
no more static.
No more feeling
like my life is tragic.
This wasn’t planned as part of the current sequence. Some things just need to be written–and shared–when they happen.
Author’s Note
There are patterns we don’t always notice until we’ve lived them more than once.
The same thoughts. The same timing. The same quiet retreat inward.
The Mind’s Winter comes from recognizing one of those cycles in real time–watching myself disappear into my own head, knowing it’s happening, and not always knowing how to stop it.
It’s strange, being both the one experiencing something and the one observing it. To understand the “why,” but still feel pulled into it anyway.
This piece isn’t about solving that pattern.
It’s about naming it.
About acknowledging the way overwhelm can turn inward, how distance can grow even when you don’t want it to, and how sometimes the things that matter most are the very things that scare us into retreat.
And maybe, in recognizing the cycle…
there’s a chance to break it.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the cold isn’t outside—it’s the space we retreat into when everything becomes too much.
The Mind’s Winter Poetry by Rowan Evans
February 8th, 2026—
I got sick again.
It happens every year
like clockwork.
It starts with the headache,
caused by being overwhelmed.
It starts slowly,
then snowballs
into more.
You see, this period of time—
it usually comes after
what I tend to call
the mind’s winter.
I slip into a deep void
of thought.
January 8th…
that’s the date.
That’s when I drift inside.
I get lost in my mind,
and I stay there—
one month—I’m gone.
Lost in thought.
One month
leading up to my “big day,”
the one they say
should celebrate me.
But I don’t see it that way.
It’s just another day.
And usually,
I bounce back.
It’s quick…
but this?
This feels like an attack—
one month in my head,
two weeks sick and then?
I broke my glasses—
vision—
I lost access.
And the longer I’m gone,
the more I pull away,
even as I—
want to stay.
You know what
the worst part is?
The worst part is—
that I know why.
I know why I do it…
why I pull away.
I’ve said the reason
a hundred times,
in nearly as many rhymes.
It’s because you meant
too much to me.
I got scared and retreated
into me.
So here it is—
March 21st,
and I—
I haven’t spoken to you
since February 6th,
and if I’m honest—
This piece came from a quiet moment of doubt. Not the kind that makes you quit – the kind that makes you question the cost of what you’re chasing.
Sometimes ambition feels heavy. Sometimes the version of yourself you have to become feels unfamiliar. This poem is less bout certainty and more about motion.
I didn’t write it to motivate anyone else. I wrote it because I needed to remember that progress doesn’t require a map – just movement.
— Rowan Evans
You don’t need a map. You just need momentum.
Momentum Poetry by Rowan Evans
When every thought
is focused on
the goals you’ve got,
but they come
with tremendous cost.
What do you do
when you feel lost?
You breathe.
You stall.
You stare at the ceiling
like it owes you answers.
You hold your goals
like they’re burning in your hands—
beautiful,
but blistering.
You wonder
if the cost is worth the climb,
if the climb is worth the view,
if the view is worth the version of you
you’ll have to become
to reach it.
And still—
you keep going.
Not because you’re certain,
but because something in you refuses
to stay small.
What do you do?
You take one step.
Then another.
And another.
