Poet – Poetry by Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

B.S.T.F.U. is me flexing.

There isn’t a real target hiding behind this poem, no specific person I’m trying to call out, and no secret literary feud happening behind the scenes. I wrote this because sometimes I like to take the battle-poet side of my voice out for a walk and see what it can do.

This piece is deliberately over-the-top. It’s swagger, insults, wordplay, internal rhyme, punchlines, and a little bit of absurdity thrown into the blender. The goal wasn’t to make a serious accusation—it was to practice the mechanics of verbal combat while having fun with the language.

And honestly, that’s part of why I love writing: sometimes I want to write something vulnerable, sometimes I want to build mythology, sometimes I want to make conspiracy theories about fish, and sometimes I just want to look at the imaginary competition and say:

Where are you on the ladder?

Below me.

It’s not that serious.

But the pen game?

That part is serious.

— Rowan Evans

A confident poet stands in a dark battle-poetry arena holding a fountain pen beside a towering ladder symbolizing literary skill. — *No target. No feud. Just a poet flexing the pen and climbing the imaginary ladder.*

B.S.T.F.U.
Poetry by Rowan Evans

Bitch, shut the fuck up—
what’chu talkin’ about?

Don’t think I haven’t heard—
how you’re runnin’ your mouth.

You thought ’cause I don’t talk a lot,
I was open season, you should be scared—
let me give you a reason, I’m a big dog—
all bite, no bark and a license to write still.

I write with precision, I write kills—

you’re not a writer,
you’re the one who steals—

plagiarizing those with skill.

It’s stolen lines
and stolen rhymes—
the only thing keeping you
holding on to borrowed time—

it’s not yours—

it’s whoever writes for you.

It’s me and it’s them—
it’s the wielders of the pen.
Those with skill,
with lines that kill
and lines that heal—

we know—

you don’t write, bitch—
be so for real.

You don’t know what a metaphor is—

and a stanza?
You hear that and you’re like—
isn’t his first name Tony?

Bitch, you’re a phony…

if you were
to try and write—
baloney.

All that to ask—

when it comes
to writing—
where are you
on the ladder?

Below me.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[Across the Page-cific]
A playful, autobiographical journey through the strange places poetry can take me—from sandwich heartbreak and pasta diss poems to gothic monsters, mythology, ravens, ghosts, and storms across the page. Beneath the absurdity is something deeply personal: the realization that writing gave me a way to rebuild myself, piece by piece.

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

Author’s Note

Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You serves as a spiritual successor to a poem I shared back in June — a piece that spoke of wanting to be “the last one,” not the first. Where that poem lived in longing and quiet promise, this one lives in the present moment — in laughter, teasing, honesty, and connection.

It’s a reflection on how love, in its truest form, doesn’t always need to shout. Sometimes it’s enough to show up, to care openly, to let someone know that even the smallest moments are extraordinary because they are shared.

This piece, like so many before it, was written for the one who inspires the gentler parts of me — my muse who reminds me that being soft is not the same as being weak, that tenderness can be its own kind of rebellion.

She will know it’s her — she always does.

“Softly lit romantic image of a lone figure standing by the water at twilight, symbolizing quiet love and devotion.” — *Inspired by the quiet moments that become extraordinary when shared with someone who truly sees you.*

Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You
Poetry by Rowan Evans

You laughed about him—
he’s an asshole, you said—
“Most guys are,” I replied,
“I’d say I’m probably an exception…
but some people might think I’m an asshole.”
You didn’t hesitate.
“No, you’re not.”
And that was enough—
a single truth, quiet but steady,
like a hand on the small of my back
when everything else wobbles.

Later, you startled me.
“Omg, fuck,” you said,
and my chest jumped before I even knew why.
I told you, it’s okay—proof I care.
You replied, “You don’t need proof. You know I know.”
And the world shrank,
everything else left behind
except the way your words settled in my chest.

We talked about how he doesn’t really get you—
how he’s always asking about the future
when you just want to live in the moment.
We talked about how his plans are boring as hell,
how you’re aching for a thrill.

You said you’d tease him on the ferris wheel,
your laugh filling the night,
“I’d suffocate him with my boobies.”
And without missing a beat, I said—
“If he’s not up for it, I’ll take his place.”
And it wasn’t bravado—it was instinct.
Because being near you
makes me brave
in ways I didn’t know I could be.

You spoke of thrill rides—
bungee jumps and wall climbs.
“I’ve always wanted to try,” I admitted.
“But it would take the right person,
someone who could push me through.”
You responded with one single word: “Me.”
And just like that, fear felt smaller—
the leap somehow possible
if I took it with you.

I don’t need to be first.
I don’t even need to be noticed yet.
I just need to be the one
who stays,
who laughs at your jokes,
who trembles when you
almost make my heart stop,
who shows up
because you matter.

I will be that one.
Not loud, not flashy.
But here.
Always here.
Waiting for the ordinary moments
that turn extraordinary
because they are ours.

You can find more of poetry [here], and you can find the spiritual precursor to this piece [Don’t Need to Be First].

Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Poet

B.S.T.F.U. | A Battle-Poetry Flex by Rowan Evans

Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You | A Poem of Quiet Devotion by Rowan Evans