Some poems arrive carrying trauma, existential questions, complicated metaphors, and enough symbolism to fill a cathedral.
This one showed up carrying a fucking pun.
Hedge Funds (Not My Fun) is deliberately stupid. I wanted to play with sound, names, word associations, and the increasingly questionable logic of a joke that refuses to die. Sometimes the page doesn’t need another emotional excavation—it just needs to have a little fun.
So yes, this is a poem about hedge funds.
No, I don’t actually have any.
And apparently, neither does my fun.
— Rowan Evans
The hedge has funds. The funds aren’t mine. Therefore, the fun remains tragically unfunded.
Hedge Funds (Not My Fun) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I think I’m so fucking funny—
I’ll make a Big Pun,
while lookin’ like a Pimp
C—but you can’t see me,
like my name is John
and my time is now—
or at least, I hope it is.
Because I’m trying to get my funds up,
yeah, I want to get my fun up—
so I stack my funds
as high as my hedges—
get it?
Hedge Fund.
That means the money isn’t mine—
so I’m stacking some funds high,
they’re just not my funds, and—
because they’re not my funds,
they do not fund my fun, man.
All for Me began with the idea of nature behaving like an overly enthusiastic audience—thunder applauding, lightning taking pictures, and rain rolling out the red carpet as if the sky had organized a celebration in my honor.
The joke is that I’m not entirely opposed to the idea of being worth celebrating. I know I have my own value. I just don’t think the weather needs to turn that acknowledgment into a full-scale natural disaster.
This is a playful little collision between self-confidence, reluctant attention, and the absurdity of taking the universe’s behavior personally.
Sometimes the sky needs to understand that not every standing ovation requires a flood.
— Rowan Evans
I appreciate the applause, but the sky really needs to chill.
All for Me Poetry by Rowan Evans
I sit beneath the open sky,
watching as clouds roll in,
listening as the thunder claps—
it’s a round of applause,
a standing ovation,
but I don’t know—
what we’re celebrating.
Then the lightning flashes,
and I strike a pose—
ready for my picture to be taken,
why? I don’t know—
couldn’t get an answer,
when I asked for it.
Rain begins to fall,
like confetti thrown—
and the floods rush in,
like the red carpet rolled—
the sky keeps insisting
I’m someone worth announcing,
and I keep insisting—
I’m not.
Not that I don’t think
I’m great—
I do—
I just don’t want nature to
celebrate me too—
because nature doesn’t know
how to keep a party in check,
it always gets out of hand.
The water gets displaced—
more ends up on land.
And somewhere overhead,
the thunder claps again,
like it’s trying to convince me—
this was all for me.
I mean…
I appreciate the gesture,
but the sky really needs to chill.
Journey into the Hexverse
[It’s Almost Like I Know What I’m Doing] A self-aware reflection on nearly three decades of writing, discovering how rage became rhythm, pain became poetry, and comedic timing became another tool in the poet’s arsenal.
[Lessons Without Kindness] A reflection on learning self-respect from a relationship that changed—the lessons hidden in manipulation, silence, and loss, and the realization that you don’t have to shrink yourself to make someone else feel tall.
[Hell’s Protégé (Remix)] Rowan Evans revisits Hell’s Protégé, originally written in 2024, and reshapes the dark, infernal persona through a newer voice. The remix keeps the fire, darkness, and diabolic ambition of the original while allowing the poem to breathe differently.
This piece started with ice, took a few unexpected detours through pop-culture references, and eventually decided that being “cold” was nowhere near the right description anyway.
So I stopped fighting the metaphor and let the fire take over.
Because sometimes the pen doesn’t freeze.
It smolders.
— Rowan Evans
The metaphor started cold. The pen decided it had something hotter to say.
Fine, Fire It Is Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ll drop a Frozen bar because I’m cold—
Emma Frost—hold on—that reference doesn’t land,
it’s not ice, her skin turns to diamonds, man.
It wasn’t in reference to her skin—
well, what was it then?
Her cold ass personality, duh, that’s the reality—
she’s not nice, she’s mean—a real Ice Queen.
Could have gotten there faster
with Iceman, Bobby Drake—
Or better yet, I could have said—
I’ll drop a Frozen bar, because I’m cold—
like Frozone, where’s my super suit?
Fine.
We’ll skip ice.
That’d be nice,
right?
Cool—
no, wait—
not cool.
We said we’re done with that.
Fine then,
fire it is—
I pen flames,
draggin’ ink across the page
like a dragon’s rage—
scorchin’ margins,
burnin’ through the lines
like I’m tryin’ to cremate the rhyme.
See?
This is why I shouldn’t switch metaphors—
I get carried away,
turn a spark into a wildfire,
turn a wildfire into a prophecy,
turn a prophecy into a punchline.
But whatever—
heat fits better anyway.
I’m not cold,
I’m molten—
I don’t freeze,
I smolder.
And if ice didn’t land,
fire always will—
because even when I’m calm,
my pen still smokes
from the last thing I wrote.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Exhibit A] A quick-witted, unapologetically playful poem about writing fast, crossing lines, roasting the competition, and letting rhythm do the talking.
[Why So Serious?] A playful, chaotic poem packed with pop-culture references, superhero imagery, Disney characters, wordplay, and the kind of ridiculous puns that make the poet wonder why they were ever given a pen.
[Welcome to the Hexverse] Step into the Hexverse—a poetic world where mythmaking, humor, rage, creativity, and confession collide, and darkness becomes something that can be reshaped into art.
Sometimes it’s strawberries, questionable scientific reasoning, and the absolute confidence to say, “Deal with it.”
This piece is a little love poem for the people who show affection in their own weird, imperfect, slightly ridiculous way.
— Rowan Evans
When roses won’t do, bring strawberries. Romance is all about knowing what they like.
It Could Have Been… Poetry by Rowan Evans
I know you don’t like roses— so I brought you a bouquet of strawberries— they’re the same thing, scientifically— maybe not exactly, but they come from the same family—
it’s still romantic. Deal with it.
Oh, and hey— it could have been apples.
It could have been…
Peaches, Pears, Raspberries, Cherries…
heck…
a bag of almonds…
but I gave the one that still feels—
like romance.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Welcome to the Hexverse] Step into the Hexverse—a poetic world where mythmaking, humor, rage, creativity, and confession collide, and darkness becomes something that can be reshaped into art.
This piece is me doing what I do best: writing too fast, joking too much, and letting the pen cross whatever line happens to be in the way.
It’s cocky. It’s playful. It knows exactly how ridiculous it is.
So consider this less of a confession and more of an exhibit.
The evidence is right there on the page.
— Rowan Evans
Exhibit A: The evidence speaks for itself.
Exhibit A (The Evidence) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I write so quick
and joke a bit.
I’m quick-witted—
enough to roast a bitch.
Down to earth,
enough to toast a bitch.
I’m on a roll,
like butter is—
spread thin
across genres,
but still
the cadence hits—
because that’s
where the rhythm lives.
You think I’m joking—
but I really write like this,
take this piece—
it’s the evidence.
Exhibit A on a list to—
these other poets
don’t exist to me.
When I read their work—
it’s straight Zs,
it puts me to sleep.
My mind is too quick,
and I don’t know
where the line is—
I’m always crossing it.
That’s what gets me
in trouble, yeah—
so I just double-down.
I’m already in trouble,
so why stop now?
Journey into the Hexverse
[Welcome to the Hexverse] Step into the Hexverse—a poetic world where mythmaking, humor, rage, creativity, and confession collide, and darkness becomes something that can be reshaped into art.
[Circle of Me] A reflective poem about sitting among the voices of memory, joy, pain, and fear—and realizing that some burdens are bigger than any one person.
[High Tide] A short reflective poem about leaving, returning, and accepting the forces that pull us back—like the tide guided by the moon.
There are poems where I sit down with a very serious idea and carefully shape every word.
This isn’t one of those poems.
Draggin’ (Ignis) is me letting the pen run loose, throwing references at the page, flexing a little, and then immediately making fun of myself for doing it. It’s playful bravado with a gothic streak, a little battle-rap energy, and absolutely no intention of pretending I’m cooler than I am.
Twenty-three years of writing will do strange things to a poet.
Apparently, it makes them compare themselves to dragons, superheroes, and Pokémon-level fire hazards.
Enjoy the chaos.
— Rowan Evans
Twenty-three years of writing and this is what the pen decided to do with all that experience.
Draggin’ (Ignis) Poetry by Rowan Evans
Twenty-three years, I’ve been doing this
with craft in my veins and trauma in my brain—
I’ve really been through some shit.
Maybe that’s why I write so ruthless—
if I spit a diss, it’d be ignis—I’d be draggin’ you,
but I’m nice, so I’m a dragon like Toothless.
This is stupid, silly, dumb—
I can’t take me serious, and this is how come.
Yeah, these might be jokes—
but I’m cold, Bobby Drake,
so shut your mouth
before I turn your girl into a—
Dragon Rider…
That kind of killed the rhyme,
that’s fine—
here’s a few more lines…
I’m too quick-witted—
pen faster than Flash,
I’m too quick wit’ it
when I write lines
to silence critics.
I’ve been writing for years,
double digits—
two followed by the number
that comes next—
I’m not even trying to flex,
this is just me writing facts.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Behind These Bars (Idol Chatter)] A playful battle-poetry piece where confidence, wordplay, pop-culture references, and a sharp pen collide. Behind These Bars (Idol Chatter) turns verbal sparring into a ridiculous little poetry showdown.
[Kaio-ken/Zenkai] Two Dragon Ball-inspired battle poems about creative power, survival, and coming back stronger. Kaio-ken with a Pen brings the attack, while Zenkai (Stronger Now) delivers the aftermath: push me to the edge, and I’ll return stronger than before.
[Don’t Push Me] A playful battle-poetry piece about turning insults into punchlines, standing your ground, and refusing to be intimidated. Don’t Push Me mixes swagger, humor, rhyme, and Rowan Evans’ signature self-aware interruptions.
[B.S.T.F.U.] A playful battle-poetry exercise packed with insults, internal rhymes, punchlines, wordplay, and literary swagger. B.S.T.F.U. is Rowan Evans flexing the verbal muscles—not calling out anyone in particular.
Give me something to work with, and I’ll turn it into a line. A joke. A rhyme. A little trouble.
That’s the game.
— Rowan Evans
Give me something to work with. I’ll give you a poem.
Give Me (I’ll Give) Poetry by Rowan Evans
Give me a beat,
I’ll give you a bar.
Give me a graveyard,
I’ll give you a ghost.
Give me a lyric,
I’ll give you a joke.
Give me a drink,
I’ll give you a toast.
You don’t have to say it—
I know, I write better than most.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Nobody² (No Body)] A minimalist poem playing with the double meaning of “nobody”—exploring loneliness, isolation, absence, and the feeling of becoming a ghost within your own life.
[Rose & Ruin] Two minimalist poems exploring the opposing forces within creativity: the thoughts we cultivate into something beautiful and the darker thoughts we transform before they have a chance to decay.
And sometimes my brain apparently looks at a sandwich and says, yes, this is how we’re processing emotional confusion today.
Lost in the Sauce is a deliberately playful poem built around food-related wordplay, particularly the language of sandwiches, condiments, bread, and the wonderfully terrible possibilities hidden inside them.
The jokes are intentionally stupid.
That is part of the point.
“Bread” becomes “rye.” “Ketchup” becomes “catch up.” “Mustard” becomes “must’ve.” “Sourdough” becomes an emotional description. Even “lettuce meat in the middle” is doing multiple jobs at once.
But beneath all of that nonsense is something much more familiar: the confusion of being told that everything is okay while someone’s behavior feels completely different.
The speaker is trying to understand the contradiction.
They were told the relationship was fine.
They were told the other person was happy.
So why does everything suddenly feel cold?
Why does affection feel sour?
Why does the speaker feel trapped in place, struggling to catch up to something they don’t fully understand?
The ridiculous wordplay gives me permission to approach that emotional confusion without making the poem overly solemn.
I’ve been rediscovering how much I enjoy treating language like a playground—taking ordinary words, twisting them until they become something else, and seeing how far I can push a joke before the emotional meaning underneath it starts showing through.
So yes, this poem is about sandwiches.
Sort of.
Mostly, it’s about being lost in the sauce when the person you’re trying to understand has already changed the recipe.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes you don’t fall apart. Sometimes you just get lost in the sauce. 🥪
Lost in the Sauce Poetry by Rowan Evans
You sandwiched me in
with an all-tomato—
love you or leave,
but I couldn’t do it clean—
I was lost in the sauce,
begging lettuce
meat in the middle.
You said, “you lie.”
I said, “Nah, you rye.”
But do you know why?
I was stuck in place,
you wouldn’t wait—
I was struggling
to ketchup.
I thought you
mustard—
how could you not?
People talk.
Look—
I’m sorry.
I don’t want to fight.
But, you said—
you were happy.
We were okay.
So why you so cold,
why you actin’ sourdough?
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Did You Really Think This Was About Trees?] A playful love poem disguised as a forest of terrible tree puns. Beneath the birch, oak, cedar, palms, lumber, and absurdist wordplay is a poem about devotion, loyalty, laughter, and building a life with someone you love.
[Blended Hardware] A playful, absurdist poem where step-ladders, garden hoses, Star Wars, teenage memories, Gothic imagery, and the poet’s own self-interrupting commentary collide. Blended Hardware is a celebration of letting language wander.
Every now and then, affection shows up wearing bark and leaves. Today was one of those days.
Did you really think this was about trees? 🌳
Did You Really Think This Was About Trees? Poetry by Rowan Evans
Birch, I’m in a mood—
but I’m feelin’ pretty Oak today,
oops, I mean, a-o-k—
especially with my Rose Wood beside me,
open my eyes, so I could Cedar—
her fingers in my hair,
like the breeze through the leaves.
Did you really think
this was about trees?
It’s just me and her
by the summer seas,
just us with Palms in the sand—
castle and a plot of land,
where she is royalty—
a Queendom built
off the back of loyalty.
And that’s something I don’t lack,
I got it in stacks—packed to the rafters,
stick with me and you’ll have a life full of laughter—
you’ll never get board like a lumberyard,
and I work hard—
to prove my words have meaning,
even when they are weird
or absurdist leaning.
Author’s Note
Sometimes I write a poem because I have something profound to say.
Sometimes I write one because my brain looked at a bunch of tree names and apparently decided they needed to become flirting material.
This is the latter.
Did You Really Think This Was About Trees? is a deliberately ridiculous little love poem built almost entirely around wordplay. Birch, oak, rosewood, cedar, palms, lumberyards, boards—I’m taking language that belongs to the world of trees and woodworking and forcing it into a completely different emotional landscape.
And yes, the title is absolutely part of the joke.
The poem starts by making the reader think they’re about to get some sort of nature poem. Then I reveal that the trees were never really the subject.
The subject was her.
The forest is just the camouflage.
I also wanted the poem to feel conversational and slightly chaotic. The little correction from “Oak” to “a-o-k,” the exaggerated promises, the lumberyard imagery, and the final admission that the whole thing is leaning toward absurdism are all intentional.
There is something freeing about allowing a love poem to be stupidly playful.
Not every expression of affection needs to be solemn.
Sometimes love looks like poetry.
Sometimes it looks like devotion.
And sometimes it looks like spending an entire poem making increasingly terrible tree puns because you love someone enough to make yourself laugh while writing about them.
Honestly, I’ll take all three.
— Rowan Evans
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Blended Hardware] A playful, absurdist poem where step-ladders, garden hoses, Star Wars, teenage memories, Gothic imagery, and the poet’s own self-interrupting commentary collide. Blended Hardware is a celebration of letting language wander.
Some poems begin with a carefully constructed metaphor.
This one began with a step-ladder.
And then immediately refused to behave.
Blended Hardware is intentionally ridiculous. I started with a simple object and let my mind wander wherever the language wanted to take it: ladders became hoses, hoses became an excuse for a terrible joke, friendship became Star Wars, Obi-Wan became a teacher, Luke became Leia, and suddenly I was revisiting different versions of myself across my writing history.
That wandering is the point.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how much more playful my relationship with language has become. I don’t always sit down with a destination in mind anymore. Sometimes I just start writing and see what happens.
This poem is one of those moments.
It also became a strange little conversation between different versions of Rowan. The fifteen-year-old writer appears briefly, the Gothic voice tries to take over, and the present-day me immediately interrupts to tell her to calm the hell down.
That self-interruption is probably one of my favorite parts of the piece.
I can write something dramatic and immediately recognize that I have made the moment far more Gothic than it needs to be.
I can make a joke, realize the joke went somewhere questionable, and then literally put myself on trial inside the poem.
That is part of what makes writing feel like a playground again.
I don’t have to protect every poem from being silly.
I don’t have to make every metaphor profound.
I don’t have to prove that every line deserves to exist.
Sometimes I can just follow a thought until it becomes a garden hose, an Obi-Wan reference, a fifteen-year-old version of myself, and an increasingly concerned author asking whether she accidentally threatened somebody.
And honestly?
That’s enough.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes you start with a step-ladder and end up somewhere completely different.
Blended Hardware Poetry by Rowan Evans
This is my step-ladder.
I call it a step-ladder, because I had another ladder before—
and yeah, I got plenty hose— different shapes and different sizes, some are six feet, some are four— I’m glad I only have two outside faucets, ’cause I wouldn’t have plenty hose, if I had one more. (I only have two hoses.)
You’re not just my homie, you’re my Obi-wan Kenobi— and I’m Luke, mixed with Leia. That means you’re my teacher, and my only hope, playa.
(I’m sorry for that, truly. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m going to… I’m going to put the pen down now.)
SIKE! I lied like it’s 1999— four more years and the myth would start, a poet born with a blackened heart.
(Dial back, that was too gothic for this piece.)
I mean, sike… I lied like it’s 2005— and I’m fifteen with a pen again, two years into the journey mapping how I’d survive—
and I mean me, not them— I’m talking the person they’d grow into. The person I’d caution you, against taking a pen to—
that’s a battle you wouldn’t win, boo.
(Wait…
was that a threat?
In a joke poem?
Too far, Rowan… too far.)
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Not the Way Jesus Did] A provocative poem about religious judgment, hypocrisy, outcasts, and the contradiction between preaching compassion and condemning those who live differently.
[Noon is Loud] If four in the morning belongs to truth, then noon belongs to impossible memories. Noon Is Loud is a playful free verse poem filled with absurd boasts, pop culture references, and tongue-in-cheek mythology that explores how easily imagination can rewrite reality.
[Content Warning] What if you reviewed a person the way you’d review a terrible novel? Content Warning is a playful, satirical poem that uses literary criticism as the ultimate roast, proving that sometimes the sharpest metaphor is also the funniest.
[Chemical X] Chemical X explores the rapid, associative way one creative mind moves—from cartoons to sports, comic books to music—revealing that inspiration isn’t linear, but a collision of memory, humor, rhythm, and intuition.
[Off Leash Thought] A reflective free verse poem exploring the mind as a living, wandering force—unpredictable, creative, and sometimes chaotic—through the metaphor of a dog off leash. It embraces mental drift not as a flaw, but as a natural part of creative thought and self-awareness.
