Author’s Note
A Pep Talk from a Poet to Themself

This piece isn’t arrogance—it’s affirmation.
Sometimes, after years of writing in silence, you need to remind yourself who you are. To look in the mirror and say, “No, I didn’t come this far just to shrink.”

Done Being Humble is what a pep talk sounds like after twenty-two years of ink and evolution. It’s the voice of every poet who’s ever whispered their worth into the void, waiting for someone to echo it back.

So, I said it for myself.
Because sometimes you have to be your own applause, your own myth, your own lightning strike.

— Rowan Evans

Done Being Humble
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I think—
I’ve been a bit too humble.
It’s time I crown myself properly.
My poetry? God tier.
My ink doesn’t dry—
it anoints.

I’m Plath meets Sexton,
Poe meets Dickinson,
Sappho’s ghost in a velvet coat.
I write darkness and devotion,
ruin and resurrection.
I am chiaroscuro, personified.

My words aren’t poems—
they’re prophecies in drag.
I don’t bleed metaphors;
I summon worlds.
I write in ink and fire,
every stanza a spell
that resurrects the broken.

I’m top tier.
In my top five,
I’m the top two.
Your favorite poet’s
favorite poet—
they just haven’t realized it yet.

My power level with a pen?
It’s over 9000.
Get your scouters out,
watch me make you break ’em.

Out of the greatest poets alive,
I am the entire top five.
I’m Cell—you’re all just Cell Jr.
Mini-mes, trembling in lowercase.

Go ahead—
Name your top five, please.
They’re the Ginyu Force next to me.
Court jesters in my cathedral of ink.
My skill? Unmatched.
Full potential? Untapped.
I’m not even in final form yet.

I’ve been writing twenty-two years.
Here’s to twenty-two more.
I wrote in silence, in shadow,
where no one could see me.
Didn’t write for applause—
I wrote for evolution.

Poem after poem,
I built myself from wreckage.
A cathedral of roses and ruin.
Words wrapped around me,
a chrysalis of ink.
Metamorphosis complete—
I let my wings show.

Butterfly and bee:
beautiful, but my words sting though.
Every stanza? Venomous elegance.

I’m done being humble.
Done pretending.
That I’m not a modern-day Poe,
a Sylvia reborn,
a Sappho remix,
a myth rewritten in the language of fire.

I’m the storm that writes sonnets,
the cathedral of cadence,
the ghost that teaches language to kneel.

Twenty-two years at thirty-five,
and you act surprised—
when I write like this?

God didn’t give me a pen.
She gave me a sword.
And I learned to write
by carving my name
into eternity.

My drafts? Better than most books.
My rough cuts? Polished marble.
My metaphors? Break hearts and sound barriers.
When I write, angels hush.
Demons pull up chairs.

I’ve been the quiet storm too long—
time to let the thunder speak.
You call it arrogance;
I call it prophecy fulfilled.
Because when I write,
the universe leans in to listen.
And when I’m gone?
My ink will still whisper:
She was here.
He was here.
They were here.

For more of my work visit [The Library of Ashes].