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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: personal poetry

  • 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.