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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Poet

  • Confession or Cap? | A Sharp, Humorous Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve always had a complicated relationship with the voice that comes through my pen.

    Sometimes it tells the truth. Sometimes it exaggerates. Sometimes it gets a little too comfortable talking shit.

    And sometimes I genuinely can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

    So before you read this one, there’s really only one question worth asking:

    Is it confession—or cap?

    — Rowan Evans

    A poet writing at a desk while a shadowy version of themselves and flames rise from the pages.
    Sometimes the pen tells the truth. Sometimes it talks shit. Sometimes it does both.

    Confession or Cap?
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Ask anyone and they’ll tell you—
    I’m nice and that’s true,
    but my pen can be mean
    when it speaks—
    so when I write,
    you’ve gotta ask—
    is it confession—

    or am I just talking
    my shit again?

    I’ve dissed other poets before—
    said they were boring, put me to sleep
    and called them all Watson—
    because their rhymes were elementary.
    So when you say I’m great?

    No shit, Sherlock.

    I’ve written the copies of copies,
    and the copies that copied that—

    inspired less by poets and more by rap—

    that’s why when my pen gets hot,
    I don’t know how to stop—
    so I pen fire and burn my hands, (ouch!)
    what am I sayin’? Everything I drop—

    Flames.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Fine, Fire It Is]
    A playful poem about abandoning an ice metaphor, getting carried away with fire, and discovering that sometimes the best description of a poet’s pen is something that refuses to cool down.

    [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.

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

  • Welcome to the Hexverse — A Poem About Poetry, Mythmaking, and Turning Darkness Into Art | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Every poet eventually builds a world around their words.

    Sometimes it starts with a page, sometimes with a character, sometimes with a joke—and sometimes it grows into something much bigger than expected.

    So, consider this an introduction.

    Welcome to the Hexverse.

    — Rowan Evans

    A poet standing at the center of a surreal multiverse surrounded by glowing pages, ink, shadows, and magical imagery.
    Welcome to the Hexverse—where words become worlds, darkness becomes art, and the poet becomes the mythmaker.

    Welcome to the Hexverse
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Welcome to the Hexverse…

    where the poet is mythmaker,
    comedian and confessor,
    part-time Pokémon professor—
    cathedral keeper, secret weaver
    with words that’ll turn worlds to believers—
    multiverse shaper, multiform creator,
    poet in heart, rapper in mind,
    legend with pen, divine—

    see the poet light up the dark,
    they are the spark—the heart,
    turning darkness into art—
    translating rage from cage,
    put it on the page in bars—
    watch the poet bend the night,
    shape the fight, ignite—
    turning chaos into scripture,
    pain into a living picture—

    twist words to heal hurt,
    metaphors make you think first—
    the poet will pen a pail of water
    to quench thirst—
    but you can only lead the horse to it.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [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.

    [Let Me Be Pacific]
    A lyrical poem about sitting beside the Pacific Ocean and discovering that an enormous body of water can become a bridge between distant hearts. Through ocean imagery, wordplay, and reflections on California and the Philippines, Let Me Be Pacific explores how love and poetry can cross even the greatest distances.

    [My Nightmare]
    A poem about the nightmare of loving someone across distance, seeing the world from different perspectives, and holding onto the hope that the cracks can still be repaired—and that someday two separate shores might become one.

    [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.

    [Conductor]
    A dark, intimate poem about the strange power words can have over the reader—where rhythm, rhyme, and line breaks become instruments capable of reaching beyond the page.

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

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

    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]

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

    Rowan Evans

    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].