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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: personal poetry

  • The Mind’s Winter: A Poem About Emotional Withdrawal, Overthinking, and Missing Someone

    Rowan Evans

    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

    A lone figure stands in a quiet winter landscape, surrounded by bare trees and falling snow, symbolizing emotional withdrawal and introspection.
    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—

    I miss you.

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

  • Roots & Wings – A Poem About Leaving, Growth, and New Horizons | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes a place stops feeling like home long before you actually leave it. The streets still know your name, but something in you has already begun drifting toward another horizon.

    This poem came from that feeling – the quiet moment you realize your roots are no longer meant for the soil you’re standing in. It’s not always about running away; sometimes it’s about allowing yourself to grow somewhere new.

    Roots & Wings sits in that space between leaving and becoming. Between the life that shaped you and the one waiting somewhere beyond the horizon.

    We carry out roots with us, even when we learn how to fly.

    — Rowan Evans

    A bird flying toward the sunset above palm trees and the ocean, symbolizing freedom and new beginnings.
    Sometimes growth means planting new roots—and trusting your wings to find the horizon.

    Roots & Wings
    Poetry by Rowan Evans
    (written February 18th, 2025)

    These streets whisper my name, but I no longer listen,
    my roots ache for softer soil, where the sun glistens.
    I’ll plant myself where the palms embrace the sea,
    then let the wind carry what’s left of me—
    a bird unbound, chasing horizons yet unseen.

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

  • One Year — A Poem About Quiet Transformation | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    One Year is a quiet celebration of someone who walked into my life and changed it without ever trying to. It’s a poem about the kind of connection that doesn’t demand attention — it simply exists, steady and transformative. This piece marks one year since I met my muse—she helped me see the world with more color, softness, and clarity. It’s a thank‑you, written in the only language I know best.

    “Golden light pouring through open curtains into a softly lit room, symbolizing emotional renewal and transformation.”
    Light has a way of finding us — sometimes through people we never expected.

    One Year
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s been one year today
    since I met you.
    One year since you
    came into my life,
    and quietly rearranged
    everything.
    I’ve not been the same since.
    I see the world in a brighter
    kind of hue—
    like the colors became true.
    Would you believe me
    if I said it was all because of you?
    Would you?

    Because you didn’t break anything
    when you arrived—
    you just moved the furniture
    of my heart and mind,
    opened the curtains,
    let the light in.
    I hadn’t even realized
    how dim it had been
    until you stepped inside.

    Even in your darkness,
    you became my light—
    and I tried to be that for you too.
    Because I saw the weight you carried,
    I just wanted to carry it with you.
    I still do.

    And maybe you’ll never know
    the full weight of what you changed—
    how you steadied the racing thoughts,
    how you carved a little sanctuary
    in the ruins I tried to hide.
    You brought color
    to my grayscale world,
    and I’d walk through
    every shadow you carry
    just to keep your flame
    from burning out.

    One year in,
    I still marvel that you’re here—
    not just passing through.
    And I remember how you said:
    “You met me at my darkest,
    I want you to see me at my brightest.”
    Here’s the thing;
    I already do.
    Because, when I look at you…

    I see you lighting every room
    you step inside.

    You can find more of my work in my archives, [The Library of Ashes].

  • The Million Shitty Poems: A Confessional Declaration by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is my fire, my confession, my offering. It is every line I’ve written, every night spent wrestling with words, every verse that burned and bled before anyone else could see it. It is a declaration of persistence, obsession, and devotion to the craft. I wrote it because sometimes the only way to honor your journey is to shout it into the void—and trust the void will answer.

    Candlelit altar with vintage typewriters, glowing pages, and ink bleeding and turning to fire, creating a gothic, ritualistic scene.
    The altar of a poet’s devotion—where every verse bleeds into the flame.

    Invocation

    I call forth the ghosts of every poem I’ve ever written.
    I summon the echoes of applause, silence, and doubt alike.
    Witness this fire. Bear it with me.

    The Million Shitty Poems: A Declaration
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    What, you think I just got lucky,
    that these verses wrote themselves without blood?
    Bitch, I’ve been working at this
    since I was thirteen—
    scribbling a million shitty poems
    to only family and friends,
    watching polite nods echo like empty chapels.

    I have knelt before typewriters like altars,
    burned ink in confession,
    let syllables carve bruises into my own chest.
    Every line was a torch,
    every stanza a spell,
    every failed rhyme a prayer
    to ghosts who whispered, write harder.

    What kind of fool would diss a poet
    who has clawed through shadows,
    kissed the void awake,
    built temples of ink in forgotten rooms?
    I’d hate to be that person
    when my verses curl in your children’s lips,
    a flicker of chaos
    you never imagined could exist outside my chest.

    I have sung my confessions
    to mirrors that never flinch,
    to candle flames that shiver in awe,
    to the hollow hum of disbelief
    that echoes louder than applause.
    I have bled ink,
    let my pulse tattoo the page,
    and watched the verses rise like ash from a funeral pyre.

    I have shared secrets
    too tender for eyes unprepared,
    truths too sharp for gentle hands,
    and laughter—oh, how laughter came—
    from the mouths of friends who feared nothing
    but dared to call it good enough.

    And now you wonder,
    Was it luck?
    No.
    Luck is the crutch of the lazy.
    I have forged these words
    from every heartbreak,
    every bruise,
    every sleepless night spent
    listening to ghosts argue in my chest.

    I have performed my confessions
    in halls empty except for my own shadow,
    to rooms that whispered,
    “Perhaps someday, someone will understand.”
    I have bled onto pages until ink became flame,
    and the flame became me—
    untamed, unrepentant, unbroken.

    Now, this poem is over.
    I fold my pen like a ritual knife,
    leaving the altar,
    with a smirk at the fools who doubted.

    Signed,
    Rowan Evans

    Benediction

    May all who read these words feel the pulse of devotion, the fire of persistence, and the thrill of unrepentant truth.
    May your own words rise from shadow to flame.
    And may your poems, messy or perfect, always be heard.