Sometimes you sit quietly long enough to hear things you’ve spent years trying not to hear.
This piece comes from that kind of silence—the kind where the voices around you become just as important as your own.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the hardest thing to carry is realizing you were never carrying it alone.
Circle of Me Poetry by Rowan Evans
I sit in a circle of me—
for the first time
since I was thirteen,
just listening…
because it’s not
my turn to speak—
some share joy,
some share pain—
and others share memories
that are hard to hear—
and in their voices
I could hear the fear,
in their eyes, see the tears—
and I feel helpless now,
just as I did back then
but now it feels different.
Heavier.
Like I’m not
just carrying
the weight of one—
I’m carrying
the weight of the sum.
It’s all of us…
it’s everyone.
Journey into the Hexverse
[High Tide] A short reflective poem about leaving, returning, and accepting the forces that pull us back—like the tide guided by the moon.
[Louder Than the Rain] A short confessional poem about the overwhelming noise of anxious thoughts, the strange silence of feeling alone in a crowded room, and finding a way to translate pain into words.
[Poet’s Curse] Poet’s Curse explores the painful side of falling too deeply: giving pieces of yourself away freely, taking accountability for your own heartbreak, and realizing that learning to let go can be harder than learning to love.
Sometimes an old poem doesn’t need to be left in the past.
Sometimes you have to return to it after you’ve changed.
Fallen Angel’s Reckoning (Remix) revisits a poem I originally wrote on June 6, 2024. The original was already telling a story I understood well: love that promised forever, a fall from an imagined heaven, and the painful process of reclaiming yourself after the promise disappears.
But I was a different writer when I wrote it.
And, more importantly, I was a different person.
The 2026 version isn’t meant to erase the original. It is a conversation with it.
I kept the central imagery—the angel, Lucifer, the fall from heaven, the halo, the darkness, the broken vow—because those symbols still belong to the emotional architecture of the piece. But I wanted to push the mythology further this time. Icarus enters the story. The fall becomes more physical, more violent, more deliberate. The speaker isn’t simply descending from something that once felt like heaven; they are plummeting from it.
And then there is the ending.
In 2024, I wrote about newfound wings.
In 2026, I wrote about broken wings.
That change matters to me.
Because strength doesn’t always mean becoming untouched by what happened. Sometimes you keep the scars. Sometimes you keep the broken pieces. Sometimes you discover that you can still fly without first repairing everything that hurt you.
The angel doesn’t become an angel again.
They don’t return to the heaven they lost.
They don’t need the person who made them feel divine to give them their identity back.
They become something else.
A fallen angel who embraces the fallen.
The broken.
The free.
That is what this remix ultimately became: not a poem about getting back what was lost, but about discovering that losing it didn’t mean losing yourself.
I didn’t rewrite the 2024 version because it was wrong.
I rewrote it because I’ve had two more years to understand the fall.
And sometimes the person who wrote the first poem deserves to hear what the person you became has learned since then.
— Rowan Evans
I don’t need unbroken wings to fly. I just need to remember that they were mine before anyone promised me heaven.
Fallen Angel’s Reckoning (Remix) Poetry by Rowan Evans [written July 23th, 2026]
I remember when you said forever,
but forever never came,
so I fell like Lucifer,
from the heavens down I tumbled.
Returned your love,
played your game—
once an angel in your eyes,
now in darkness I crumbled.
Your promises were wings that lifted me high,
but they melted away, when I reached the sun—
just like Icarus, the light was my undoing.
It wasn’t just a fall, I was plummeting…
a fallen star,
cast from the sky,
now I walk in shadows,
where our love met its end.
Like Lucifer—I embraced the night,
wandering through realms of regret and pain,
I shed my halo,
lost my light,
no longer an angel,
in your eyes or in my name.
Yet in this darkness,
a new path unfurls—
I find strength in the ashes of our broken vow,
rising from the ruins of our shattered world.
I reclaim my soul,
I’m reborn here and now.
No longer bound by your empty decree—
I soar with broken wings,
embracing the fallen,
the broken, the free,
a fallen angel finding strength
I never knew I’d own.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Homecoming] Homecoming is a return to the Gothic aesthetic at the heart of Rowan Evans’s poetry, blending Poe, mythology, horror icons, moonlight, ravens, and darkness into a meditation on artistic identity and finding your way back to the voice that feels like home.
[The Monster in the Margins] Drawing inspiration from horror icons like Michael Myers, Ghostface, Freddy Krueger, and Pennywise, this poem explores the darker side of creativity—where inspiration becomes an unstoppable force lurking just beyond the edge of the page.
[The Monster in the Margins II] The Monster in the Margins II transforms Rowan Evans’s Seven Deadly Sins mythology into a horror story written between the lines, where Lust, Wrath, Sloth, Greed, Pride, Envy, and Gluttony become monsters growing from pain, grudges, and scars.
[The Unkindness Descends] “The Unkindness Descends” is a Gothic symbolic poem exploring collapse, transformation, and the unsettling experience of being witnessed during moments of unraveling. Through raven imagery, ambiguity, and ritualistic atmosphere, the poem invites multiple interpretations—spiritual, psychological, ominous, or transformative.
[Gospel in Crimson] When writing becomes ritual and love becomes devotion, the line between creation and worship begins to blur. Gospel in Crimson explores obsession, artistry, and the sacred act of expression.
There is a particular kind of heartbreak that doesn’t have a villain.
Sometimes nobody betrayed you.
Nobody lied.
Nobody promised you something they couldn’t give.
Sometimes someone simply exists, speaks to you, makes you feel something—and your heart decides to build an entire mythology around it.
That is where Poet’s Curse came from.
I’ve joked before about having a poet’s curse: the tendency to fall into feelings quickly, to hear a little beauty in someone’s voice and suddenly find myself wading into the waves after it. But beneath the joke is something I’ve had to become more honest about.
Sometimes my heartbreak is partly mine.
Not because I was wrong to feel what I felt, but because I have a habit of giving pieces of myself away before I’ve figured out whether there is somewhere safe for them to land.
The person in this poem didn’t necessarily do anything wrong. She didn’t promise me forever. She didn’t lead me somewhere just to abandon me. She talked—and I listened. I heard a siren’s song, and I chose to wade into the water.
So this isn’t a poem about blaming her.
It’s about looking at myself afterward and admitting something uncomfortable:
I learned how to hold on long before I learned how to let go.
And maybe that’s the real curse.
Not that I love too deeply.
Not that I feel too much.
But that once I give someone a piece of my heart, I don’t always know how to take my hands away from the fire.
Sometimes the only way forward is to stop calling that weakness a curse and start learning the skill I never had—
how to let go without becoming less capable of love.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the hardest thing to learn isn’t how to love—it’s how to let go of what you’ve already given away.
Poet’s Curse Poetry by Rowan Evans
Here we go again
it’s another season of sin,
the poet’s back
heartbroken with a pen.
Yeah, went and fuckin’
did it again—
it’s my fault
my heart is cracked,
with pieces missing.
You see, I give them away
too freely, it’s such a pain
to be me, I get hooked
too easily—
she did nothing wrong,
she didn’t lead me on, just talked
and I heard a siren’s song—
I waded into the waves,
prayed for things to change.
Pardon the moment of slowness,
give me a moment while I own this
and take accountability for my part
in breaking my heart.
It’s a poet’s curse—
I only learned how to hold on.
I never learned how to let go,
my feelings and emotion
like hot coals in my hands.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[When I Fall] When I Fall is a vulnerable poem about loving without reservation, feeling everything deeply, and refusing to make the heart smaller just because wholehearted love can sometimes lead to loneliness and pain.
When I Fall is about the way I experience love when I stop trying to make it smaller.
I have never been particularly good at feeling things halfway. When something reaches my heart, it tends to go deeper than the surface—into the marrow, into the places where emotion becomes difficult to separate from identity. That intensity can be beautiful, but it can also hurt when the love I give doesn’t find its way back to me.
The easy response would be to close myself off.
To dim the light.
To protect myself by pretending I don’t feel as deeply as I do.
But I don’t want to do that.
There is something important about refusing to treat your capacity for love as a flaw simply because someone else couldn’t—or wouldn’t—meet you there. Sometimes loving wholeheartedly means accepting that you may get hurt. Sometimes being honest about what you feel means sitting with the loneliness afterward.
That doesn’t mean the answer is to become colder.
I would rather keep my heart open.
I would rather love the way I love—whole, honest, and unhidden—than spend my life making myself smaller just to avoid the possibility of pain.
Maybe falling hard isn’t the problem.
Maybe the real courage is choosing to keep getting back up without becoming afraid of the fall.
— Rowan Evans
I would rather love wholeheartedly than make my heart smaller just to make the fall hurt less.
When I Fall Poetry by Rowan
When I fall, I fall hard.
I feel it all or nothing—
when it comes to matters of the heart.
There is no middle ground,
no in-between—
it’s all or nothing for me.
I send out love,
and no one returns with it.
so I sit alone—
it’s the same as always,
I’m used to it.
I wear my heart on my sleeve,
exposed to the elements.
That means I feel things deeply,
nothing is surface level—
everything is marrow deep.
So I pour myself in crimson ink
across a porcelain page—
the only place
that I can put this pain.
Still, I don’t close myself.
I don’t dim the light.
I don’t pretend my heart is smaller
than it is.
I love the way I love—
whole, honest, unhidden—
even if it leaves me alone sometimes.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Where the Metaphors Lead] Some truths are easier to write than they are to say aloud. “Where the Metaphors Lead” explores the quiet space between dreams, confession, and the courage it takes to let another person know how deeply they’ve become woven into your inner world.
[Beach to Beach (How I Get There)] A dream becomes a journey between familiar shores and unfamiliar cities in Beach to Beach (How I Get There), a poem about imagined travel, ocean crossings, longing, and the places we hope to someday reach while awake.
[The World Shifted Around Us] The world transformed around us—beach, city streets, jungle—but we never moved. Sometimes love isn’t found in words, but in the quiet certainty of someone remaining clear while everything else fades.
[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.
Some feelings become difficult to carry once they stop being hypothetical.
You rehearse the words in your head, hide them in poems, disguise them as metaphors, bury them in “what ifs” and dream sequences—because saying them plainly makes them real.
This piece came from that space between silence and confession.
The strange place where fear and honesty start sounding alike.
Not fear of loving someone.
Fear of changing something that already matters deeply to you.
Because sometimes the connection itself becomes so important that risking it feels terrifying.
And sometimes love isn’t about perfection at all.
Sometimes it’s just about seeing someone clearly—and caring anyway.
— Rowan Evans
Some truths stay hidden in poems long before they’re ever spoken aloud.
Just Knowing You Has Been Enough Poetry by Rowan Evans
I went quiet,
but you never left my mind.
I was silent—
I had a lot to say,
just didn’t know how to say it.
I was afraid.
Scared out of my mind.
Everything I could have said,
it didn’t feel right.
It felt too heavy—
too hard to carry.
I had to set it down
for a while.
I had to sit with it,
the words only spoken
in my dreams.
Dreams where,
you never have the chance
to respond.
It feels wrong.
But I wouldn’t want to
speak for you.
It’s been this way
for a while now.
I get too in my head,
too hung up on
what I have said—
and what I want to say.
They aren’t always
the same.
I’ve dropped hints
in coded lines,
wrote the words plain
in poems about dreams—
knowing they’d get overlooked.
They’re not serious.
But know this,
the words written here
are me being honest:
I’m scared.
I’m terrified,
it’s true—
but I really do
love you.
There’s no other way
to say it.
Because what is love—
if not bias?
And I am biased.
Now what’s bias,
if not seeing perfection
where there is none?
Because I know you’re not perfect—
I’ve seen the cracks.
I’ve listened to your stories,
heard the lore—
but here’s the thing,
it’s not about perfection
or lack thereof—
it never has been.
It’s about connection.
It always has been.
That’s all I’ve ever wanted,
whatever shape that takes—
I can be happy.
Just knowing you
has been enough.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[The Streets I Sleep When I Walk] “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.
[Memories From a Life Yet to Come] Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life
[Separate Timelines] “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.
Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory.
Not literal memory—something stranger than that.
A feeling. A pull. A version of yourself that already exists somewhere ahead of you, waiting to be caught up to.
I’ve written a lot about displacement, longing, and feeling emotionally out of sync with the place I was born into. But this piece isn’t rooted in resentment. It’s quieter than that.
This poem came from the feeling of seeing glimpses of alignment before you’ve fully arrived there yet.
The strange comfort of closing your eyes and feeling more connected to yourself in dreams than you do while awake.
Not because sleep is escape— but because sometimes dreams reveal the shape of what your heart has been reaching toward all along.
— Rowan Evans
Some places feel familiar long before we ever arrive there.
Memories From a Life Yet to Come Poetry by Rowan Evans
I close my eyes—
hear the crashing waves,
taste the salt on my lips,
feel the wind in my hair.
I feel like I’m floating—
even lying in bed.
When I close my eyes—
I travel in my head.
It’s like I remember things
I haven’t lived yet.
Memories from a life
yet to come.
I see the life
I want to lead,
while I live the life
I want to leave.
Not because I hate it.
I’m just misaligned.
A little off-center,
a little out of sync.
It’s like I follow the waves,
because I was never meant
for this shore.
Awake is the nightmare,
asleep is when I open my eyes,
and I can see the streets—
People sometimes talk about depression like it’s constant sadness.
For me, it’s rarely that simple.
Sometimes it’s pressure. Sometimes it’s exhaustion. Sometimes it’s numbness so quiet you don’t notice how deep you’ve sunk until something shifts and suddenly you can breathe again.
That’s where this piece came from.
Not from a dramatic breakthrough— just a morning where the weight felt lighter.
And when you’ve carried storms inside yourself for long enough, even small moments of relief can feel almost unreal.
But one of the hardest things to learn about living with depression is this:
good days don’t erase bad ones, and bad days don’t erase good ones.
The storm passing doesn’t mean it’ll never return.
It means you survived it long enough to recognize clear skies when they arrive.
That’s what Reading the Sky became about for me.
Not curing the storm. Not defeating it.
Just learning its patterns. Learning when the pressure shifts. Learning how to keep breathing through both the thunder and the quiet afterward.
And maybe most importantly—
allowing yourself to enjoy the clean air when it finally comes.
— Rowan Evans
Some victories are simply learning how to breathe again after the storm passes.
Reading the Sky Poetry by Rowan Evans
I woke today
feeling different—
like everything
had changed,
in an instant.
Like the storm inside
had finally gone silent.
The winds had died,
but I was alive.
Smile on my face—
for the first time,
didn’t feel out of place.
I could still see
lightning on the edges
of my perception—
feel the rumble
of thunder
in my chest.
It was softer now.
This storm had passed,
but another
would surely come.
It’s a cycle—
and these things
have a season.
The storms?
They come
and go.
That’ll never change.
It’s learning
to read the sky,
to feel
when the pressure shifts.
Now let me say this plain…
I’ve got depression.
It lives in my chest,
waiting to teach me lessons.
It’s a storm
I’ve weathered—
more than
any one person should.
That’s what makes
days like these—
feel like the cleanest air
I’ve ever breathed.
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—
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
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.
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.
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…
