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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: personal transformation

  • The Ink Hasn’t Changed | A Poem About Healing, Growth & Writing to Survive by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I sometimes look back at the person I was when I first started writing and wonder how much of that younger version of me is still sitting somewhere inside every poem I create. I started writing at thirteen, the same year I experienced my first heartbreak. Back then, ink wasn’t simply a creative outlet. It was a way to hold myself together, to give shape to feelings I didn’t know how to carry, and to leave a record of myself on the page when I was afraid of losing pieces of who I was.

    The Ink Hasn’t Changed is about revisiting those beginnings without confusing familiarity with stagnation. The same emotions still find their way into my work: joy, grief, anger, tenderness, laughter, and pain. I’ve continued mapping my soul through poetry, stitching together broken pieces and filling the cracks with whatever gold I could find. The tools and materials may feel familiar, but the person doing the stitching is not the same.

    There’s a difference between carrying the same weight and never moving forward. Sometimes, growth means discovering that the thing that once kept you alive can become something you choose to nurture, refine, and share.

    My ink hasn’t changed because its purpose never needed to. I have changed. I’ve survived. And the words that once helped me hold myself together now help me understand who I’ve become.

    — Rowan Evans

    An adult poet reflects beside a translucent younger version of herself at a writing desk with black and golden ink, a cracked bowl repaired with gold, and map-like patterns symbolizing healing and personal growth.
    The ink that helped me survive at thirteen still carries my truth at thirty-six. The ink hasn’t changed. I have.

    The Ink Hasn’t Changed
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been stuck in the past a lot lately,
    just thinking about who I was—
    who I was trying to become
    and how those early days
    set the stage for who I became,
    on and off the page.

    The same year
    I committed myself to ink,
    I tasted my first heartbreak—
    it was bitter sweet,
    hated that it had to come,
    but nothing could be done.
    That was 2003, I was thirteen—
    and she was made to leave.

    I took the shattered pieces,
    collected in a basket—
    I took threads of silver
    and sewed myself
    back together again.
    Cracks patched with gold and ink,
    confessions penned in golden ink—

    back then
    I wrote for me—
    I wrote to keep it together,
    mentally—
    afraid I’d disappear
    if I didn’t map my soul in ink.

    Turned poetry to cartography,
    started mapping the whole of me.
    I mapped my soul, wholly—
    turned my pain holy.
    I tried to translate all of me—
    the joy, the pain,
    laughter and grief—
    and my ink hasn’t changed.

    It’s still carrying the same things.
    All the same weight, wait—
    does that mean I’m stuck in place?

    No, just because the ink
    has stayed the same—
    doesn’t mean I have—I’ve changed,
    I’m not the same as I was at thirteen,
    now that I’m thirty-six—
    and I’m not the same as I was at sixteen,
    that’s when I thought my ink was real mean—
    but really it was too nice,
    the only thing keeping me alive.

    Journey into the Hexverse

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

  • Late for My Escape – A Short Poem About Urgency, Change, and Leaving

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some urgency doesn’t come from the outside.

    It builds quietly—over time—until one day it feels like you’ve already waited too long.

    This piece starts with something familiar, almost playful. But underneath that rhythm is something more real:

    the feeling that staying where you are isn’t neutral—it’s costing you something.

    And eventually, that feeling turns into movement.

    Not because you’re ready.

    But because you can’t afford not to be.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person running through a surreal landscape with a distorted clock symbolizing urgency and escape.
    Some realizations don’t arrive gently—they show up as urgency.

    Late for My Escape
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Like the rabbit
    running through wonderland—
    I’m late…

    I’m late.

    I’m late
    for a very important date—

    my escape.

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

  • Lantern in the Room – A Poem About Trauma, Love, and Inner Darkness

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece wasn’t planned.

    It came out in one sitting–somewhere between thought and feeling, where things don’t always organize themselves neatly. It’s messy in the way real reflection tends to be.

    There’s a version of me that still exists in that room. The one surrounded by noise, by doubt, by everything that hasn’t fully let go yet.

    And for a long time, I thought the goal was to get out of that room entirely.

    To silence it. To leave it behind.

    But that’s not what happened.

    Instead, I learned how to sit in it differently.

    To see the shadows for what they are–not threats, but remnants. Not something to fear, but something to understand.

    And somewhere along the way, I realized something else–

    that I wasn’t alone in that space anymore.

    This piece is about that shift.

    Not from the darkness to light…
    but from fear to awareness.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person holding a glowing lantern in a dark empty room surrounded by shadowy figures, symbolizing inner demons and self-reflection.
    Even in the darkest rooms, a single light is enough to face what once felt impossible.

    Lantern in the Room
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I sit in an empty room—
    but I’m not alone here.

    It’s me, myself
    and the demons I hide.

    Remnants
    of a shattered mind,

    scattered across
    endless timelines.

    A life of possibility,
    held back by humility—
    and a lack of confidence.

    I don’t know
    how to take a compliment.

    What makes it worse is—
    I know my worth…
    but I question
    how anyone else could.

    I don’t let them
    get close enough to know.

    I get just close enough—
    close enough to know it’s real.

    Then I pull back—
    because I’m scared to feel.

    I’ve been hurt before.

    And that hurt—
    it festered,
    turned to rot.

    It spread
    inside my chest,
    until there was nothing left—

    just fear and doubt.

    In my head,
    they shout.

    I just wanted them out.

    And then—

    her.

    Her,
    with the voice
    that cuts through
    the fog.

    Her,
    with the eyes
    that light up the night—
    they brighten my life.

    Her…
    it’s always been her.

    Since the moment
    she appeared.
    It felt like—
    addiction.

    I couldn’t get enough.

    And I ask myself—
    is this love?

    I used to think
    I knew what that was.

    Now every thought
    revolves around her.

    Even when I drift,
    the thought of her
    brings me back to center.

    She’s the tether—
    a lighthouse
    in stormy weather.

    Just by existing,
    she makes me better.

    She didn’t save me.
    She didn’t fix me—

    she changed my perspective.

    That’s it.

    Now—
    I can’t picture
    what life was like before.

    It feels distant.

    Like a version of history
    that didn’t happen to me.

    But it did.

    That’s where my scars
    come from.

    It’s where the demons
    were born.

    The voices that whisper—
    the thoughts that scream—

    is this a nightmare
    or a dream?

    Because I’m still terrified.
    I’d be lying if I said otherwise.

    So I return to the room—
    lantern in hand.

    The shadows don’t scare me anymore.

    They’re just part
    of the narrative now.

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