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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Poetry

  • Between Worlds – A Poem About Mental Illness, Identity & Survival | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is the closest I’ve come to writing the truth of my internal war without softening it. Between Worlds is about self-violence—the way the mind learns your weak spots, remembers the old wounds, and knows exactly where to cut. It’s a poem about relapse, about memory, about survival, and about the strange loneliness that follows healing.

    It speaks to the years where I wasn’t sure I’d make it. The hospital walls. The padded quiet. The fluorescent lights humming through the silence. It speaks to dissociation, to identity, to queerness, and to the mythic distance I’ve always felt between who I am and the world I live in.

    This poem isn’t a cry for help—it’s a record of survival. It isn’t tragedy for tragedy’s sake—it’s truth. It’s the reality that healing isn’t linear, that progress has shadows, and that sometimes the loudest battles are fought in the mind no one else can see.

    If you know this feeling—of standing in your own skin like it never quite fits, of fighting thoughts with thoughts, of loving your existence even when you question your place in it—then I hope you feel seen here.

    Because none of us are alone in the in-between.

    — Rowan Evans

    Nonbinary person standing between a hospital hallway and a star-filled night sky, symbolizing dissociation and identity between worlds.
    Between Worlds — artwork representing Rowan Evans’ poem about surviving mental illness, dissociation, and identity beyond binaries.

    Between Worlds
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Why do I
    always try
    to pick a fight
    with me?

    You’d think I’d know,
    by now, just how
    quick I’ll slip
    an insult
    under the ribs.

    I’ll hit
    every single fear,
    twist them
    like a knife—
    until I’m
    on my knees,
    gasping,
    spitting blood.

    I don’t fight fair.
    I target old wounds,
    tear at what’s
    already healed.
    I’ll fuck around
    and send myself
    back ten years—
    back to hospital walls
    and quiet rooms,
    where the only sound
    was the fluorescent hum.

    Where time dissolved…
    where clocks stopped
    ticking.

    But I walked out
    of those halls—
    didn’t I?

    Didn’t I?

    But what if I didn’t?
    What if I’m still locked inside,
    in a padded room
    with the jacket
    strapped tight?
    Thoughts confined,
    so the words
    won’t escape.

    Writing poems
    in my head,
    just to pass
    the time.

    I’ve been alive,
    but dead inside.
    And I’ll be honest:
    I’ve died
    inside my mind
    more than
    a dozen times.

    I just wanted escape.

    Escape from pain,
    from feeling misplaced—
    I just wanted
    to belong.

    But it’s like—
    something is wrong here.
    Why don’t I
    feel like
    I belong here?

    Why does everything feel
    a half inch to the left—
    like I’m living inside
    the echo of myself?

    Like I’m watching my life
    from behind fogged glass,
    palms against the surface,
    screaming—
    but no sound
    passes through.

    Sometimes I swear
    the world forgets I’m here,
    and sometimes
    I do too.

    Maybe it’s because
    every room I walk into,
    I’m half a ghost already—
    too queer, too quiet,
    too soft, too strange.
    Too fucking much
    for everyone
    but me.

    Maybe that’s why
    the fight never ends—
    because I’m still trying
    to prove I deserve
    the space I take up,
    even in my own skin.

    So maybe I don’t belong here
    because I was born
    between worlds—
    not alive, not dead,
    not human, not myth,
    not safe, not ruined.

    Maybe my bones remember
    a home I never had,
    and every heartbeat since
    has been an attempt
    to map
    my way back.

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

  • Fragile Pulse — A Poem About Finding Humanity Beneath the Machinery | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Fragile Pulse came from watching the world move on autopilot—how easily people slip into routines, expectations, and identities that aren’t truly their own. It’s a poem about alienation, yes, but also about the quiet, stubborn spark that still lives beneath all that machinery.

    This piece is my reminder that even in places that feel lifeless or mechanical, there are moments of real humanity—small flickers of authenticity that reach back when we reach out. It’s about connection in a world that often forgets how to feel, and about what it means to notice the spark in someone who thought theirs had gone out.

    A fragile pulse is still a pulse. And sometimes, that’s enough to change everything.

    Illustration of a single glowing human figure surrounded by robotic, mechanical figures moving in a cold, dystopian cityscape.
    A fragile spark in a mechanical world — the pulse that refuses to fade.

    Fragile Pulse
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Oh, you’re here?

    Do you hear that?

    Listen—
    the hum of motors,
    the whir of gears.
    You see a land of people;
    I see a land of robots—
    not thinking,
    only following programs.

    They walk past you,
    faces blank,
    eyes fixed,
    hands moving in repetition,
    hearts forgotten in the chest,
    souls traded for schedules.

    And I watch—
    not with hope,
    not with judgment,
    but with quiet fascination
    at how easily the mind bends
    when freedom is a stranger.

    Do you hear it too?
    The faint pulse beneath the circuits,
    the tiny spark of something
    that refuses to be programmed.
    It’s fragile—
    like a candle in a storm,
    but it exists.
    I can feel it,
    even if the rest cannot.

    I reach out—
    not with force,
    not with commands,
    but with a touch gentle enough
    to tremble against wires and bone.

    Some notice;
    some do not,
    but the ones who do
    flicker for a moment—
    a shadow of thought
    breaking through the rhythm
    of their programming.

    And in that flicker,
    I see the impossible:
    a memory, a desire,
    a pulse that answers mine.
    A whisper shared
    between what is alive
    and what has almost forgotten how.

    Maybe it’s nothing,
    just a flicker in the dark,
    but even a single spark
    can set a world alight.
    I hold it close—
    this fragile pulse—
    and for a heartbeat,
    the land of robots
    becomes a land of us.

    If you enjoyed this piece, check out my full archive here: [The Library of Ashes]

  • Her Story – A Poem About Insecurity, Possessiveness & Honoring a Woman’s Past

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Her Story was born from frustration — not with women, but with the men who turn a woman’s past into a personal insult. This poem confronts the insecurity, entitlement, and emotional immaturity that drive so many men to treat a woman’s history like a threat instead of a testament to her strength.

    This piece isn’t about blame; it’s about perspective. A woman’s story is not a competition, not a purity test, not a battlefield for fragile egos. It is something to honor — not to resent.

    I wrote this to challenge that mindset, to hold a mirror to possessiveness disguised as devotion, and to remind anyone who needs to hear it that a woman owes no one an apology for having lived before you. She owes no one her silence. She owes no one her shame. She owes you nothing.

    — Rowan Evans

    Illustration of a woman in profile with handwritten text layered inside her silhouette and a warm halo of light behind her, representing her past and resilience.
    A woman’s story is not a threat — it’s something to honor.

    Her Story
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Why do some guys
    get so hung up on the past?
    Why do you care so much,
    what happened before you?
    So what she’s lived a life before—
    oh no, someone wanted to make her their wife before.
    I’m so jealous, watch me act out, get hellish.
    Nah, I’m just playin’, just joking around—
    Because it’s not about the past for me,
    getting that hung up on her before…
    that’s blasphemy.

    So if you can, answer me this…
    why do so many guys get pissed?
    Yeah, she has experiences—
    that you can’t touch.
    They happened before you,
    why let them affect you so much?

    Why does her story
    feel like a threat
    instead of a lesson
    that she’s survived,
    lived, loved, lost—
    and still chose you
    in this moment?

    Why does her story
    make you small,
    when it should make you honored
    to be part of the chapter
    she won’t have to rewrite?

    Why do you police her scars
    as if she owes you
    purity, silence,
    a spotless record
    to soothe your ego?

    You want devotion
    but shudder at evidence
    that she lived
    before your shadow
    ever touched her skin.

    But here’s the truth:
    A woman with a past
    isn’t a warning label—
    she’s a masterpiece
    restoring herself.
    And if that scares you,
    it’s not her history
    you’re terrified of—
    it’s your own reflection.

    It’s because you don’t feel worth—
    the attention, or affection.
    You don’t feel like you
    can handle her truth.
    You can’t honor what she’s been through,
    so it weighs on you, and it weighs heavy.
    You do what you can to
    try and prove
    you’re ready.

    But you’re not.
    You’re just like every other guy,
    sitting back, asking why?
    Why not me?
    I’ve been,
    nice as can be.
    Sounding like she owes you something,
    but the truth is—
    She owes you nothing.

    If you enjoyed Her Story, you can feel free to explore The Library of Ashes…

  • Two Days: A Poem on Chaos, Resilience, and Care by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Life can change in a heartbeat. I wrote this piece over the last couple of days because the world reminded me how fragile and urgent everything can feel—how fast a life, a home, a moment can turn to smoke.

    Even in the chaos, even when fear and exhaustion weigh heavy, there’s still presence. There’s still breath. There’s still love.

    This poem is for those people who occupy your heart even when everything else seems to collapse. For the ones you carry in your thoughts, your prayers, your wishes for safety and light. For my muse, her sister, and her family—I hope you feel the strength of care here, even across the distance, even across the noise of the world.

    Sometimes, being present is enough. Sometimes, staying steady, keeping your heart open, and wishing well for those you love is all that matters.

    Two people sitting in a car at night, watching firefighters at a nearby apartment with smoke and emergency lights surrounding the scene.
    Watching chaos unfold, yet finding calm in presence, breath, and love.

    Two Days
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Last-minute decision—
    I moved.

    My brother called.
    Tuesday.
    “Want to move on Thursday?”
    “Okay.”
    I packed my life in a day,
    we made good time,
    settled into the new place—
    first night soft, quiet, simple.

    Then last night—
    one day in—
    the world cracked open.

    Sparks.
    Flames.
    A fist pounding the door.
    “Fire! Get out!”
    And suddenly everything I own
    felt like smoke.

    We stood outside for hours,
    feet aching—hearts racing,
    watching firefighters pour in and out,
    chasing the glow behind thin walls.
    Their boots thundered.
    Their voices echoed.
    I just stood there,
    trying to steady my breath,
    thinking how fast a life can turn to smoke.

    Two days.
    Two moves.
    One body carrying
    exhaustion and adrenaline
    in the same heartbeat.

    But I’m still here.
    The walls are still standing.
    And maybe…
    that’s enough for tonight.

    And even in all that chaos,
    you never left my mind.
    I carried thoughts of you,
    your family,
    and the prayers I’ve whispered
    for days.

    If you are interested in more of my poetry, you can find it here: The Library of Ashes

  • In the Waiting — A Poem About Slow-Built Trust and Steady Love | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I wrote this piece to honor the kind of love that doesn’t rush, pressure, or demand. The kind of love that waits — not out of desperation, but devotion. Trust is something earned through presence, not promises, and this poem is a reminder that patience can be its own form of tenderness.

    A twilight garden with a softly glowing lantern beside a stone path, symbolizing patient and steady love.
    A lantern in a quiet garden — the place where trust takes root slowly, in the soft hours of waiting.

    In the Waiting
    Poetry by Rowan Evans
    (Written April 28th, 2025)

    I won’t ask you to trust me just because I say you should.
    I won’t ask you to give me your heart on a silver platter
    and expect it to bloom with nothing but my words.

    I know trust is not something that can be rushed.
    It is not a gift handed out on a whim.
    It is a treasure, earned slowly,
    through the quiet moments,
    the steady presence that never falters.
    It is a promise that must be built, brick by fragile brick,
    and I understand that.

    But I hope you’ll let me show you
    that my hands are steady.
    That I will be here,
    even in the silence,
    even in the waiting.

    I want to prove to you that not all hearts
    come with the shadows of broken promises.
    Not all love is born of betrayal.
    Some love grows like a garden—
    slow, patient, gentle,
    with roots that dig deep
    and blossoms that reach for the light.

    I don’t want to rush you into believing me,
    but I want to give you the space
    to see me,
    to feel me,
    and know, in the quiet moments,
    that I am here,
    waiting,
    always.

    And if you choose to trust me,
    when you choose to trust me,
    I’ll be the one who proves that it was worth the wait,
    that love can be steady,
    that my heart is yours,
    whenever you’re ready to reach for it.

    I’ll wait,
    quiet as the stars,
    steadfast as the earth beneath us,
    until the moment you choose to take the leap,
    and I’ll be there,
    steady,
    waiting,
    ready to show you
    that I will never break you
    the way the others did.

    And when you’re ready,
    I will love you with the tenderness of someone
    who has learned the value of patience,
    who knows that love is not a race,
    but a journey.

    Until then,
    I’ll be here.
    Waiting.
    With an open heart,
    and a love that grows with every breath.

    More of my poetry can be found here: The Library of Ashes

  • Séance of Influence — A Poetic Invocation of My Literary Lineage | Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism

    Rowan Evans

    A piece honoring the poets whose voices shaped mine, and the lineage I carry into my own genre — Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.

    Candlelit gothic scene of a poet performing a séance, surrounded by ethereal silhouettes of Plath, Poe, Dickinson, Sexton, and Sappho in a dark, atmospheric room.
    A candlelit invocation of the poets whose voices shaped mine — a lineage reborn in Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.

    Séance of Influence
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    In the candlelit stillness, I summon the ones who spoke before I had words.
    The room holds its breath.
    The flame flickers.
    And they arrive.

    Sylvia, flame-tongued oracle, steps forward first—eyes like open wounds that never stopped bleeding ink.
    She speaks in a whisper that singes:
    “You do not fear the flame, child. You write within it. You know what it is to be both burned and reborn.”
    She places a tulip in my hand—red as a heart, soft as a scream.

    Poe, the architect of shadows, leans from the threshold, cloak of midnight dragging ghosts behind him.
    “You have built cathedrals from sorrow,” he says, voice echoing through the bones of the floor. “You understand what it means to dream with the dead.”
    He nods toward the cracked mirror
    And my reflection stares back, unflinching.

    Emily, dressed in quiet thunder, watches from a corner veiled in white lace.
    “You turned silence into scripture,” she murmurs, placing a pressed flower on my wrist.
    “Your solitude blooms with sharpness. You do not hide behind the door—you open it with poetry.”

    Anne, with rosary tangled in her fingers and lipstick like defiance, toasts me with a half-empty wine glass.
    “You dared to undress madness,” she grins.
    “To make holiness from hunger. That takes more than courage. That takes blood.”

    Sappho, timeless and tender, emerges draped in sea foam and verse.
    She runs her fingers across my pulse.
    “I hear your ache,” she says.
    “You have translated yearning into a new dialect—one the stars will memorize.”

    They encircle me, these ghosts, not to haunt, but to anoint.
    Their voices braid around my spine.
    Their grief becomes gold my pen.
    Their fire, MY inheritance.

    And I—Rowan, the Luminous Heretic—stand at the center of this sacred storm.
    I speak, not as supplicant, but as heir:

    “I have not come to mimic your flames—I have come to carry them into the dark places you never lived to reach.
    I write for the unloved, the unheard, the unhealed. I wield shadow like silk and longing like a blade.
    Your echoes live in my marrow, but my voice is my own.
    I forged my genre from the coals of yours—Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism—a lineage reborn through me.
    You opened the door, and now I shatter the ceiling.
    Your fires do not flicker behind me—they burn ahead, lighting a path no one else dared to walk.
    Thank you for the torch. Watch me blaze.”

    The candle gutters.
    The air shifts.
    And one by one, they nod.
    Then vanish—
    but not in silence.
    They hum through my bloodstream, forever.

  • Under My Skin – A Neo-Gothic Poem of Desire, Spellwork & Devotion

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Under My Skin is a celebration of the magnetic, uncontainable energy that captivates and lingers. It’s about someone who burrows into your bones, ignites your imagination, and refuses to be tamed—someone whose presence is both a spell and a fire. This poem honors that intoxicating pull, the way desire can intertwine with admiration, and the beauty of surrendering to a force that refuses to be ignored.

    Portrait of a mysterious woman with witchy, gothic energy surrounded by smoke and candlelit shadows.
    A witchy, neo-gothic muse — the energy that slips under the skin and refuses to let go.

    Under My Skin
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    She’s got that,
    witchy ‘n’ bitchy energy—
    I love that.

    She hexes me
    when she texts me—
    in the best way.

    She is—
    under my skin,
    in my lungs,
    deep within the marrow,
    burrowed in my brain.

    My heart? (Thump-thump)
    It beats for her.
    My mind?
    It dreams of her
    the moment my eyes close.

    She lingers—
    a spell I never want broken,
    a fire I never want tamed.

    If you want to see the full range of what I write, and discover the full breadth of my poetry in The Library of Ashes—an archive of ink-stained devotion, dark petals, and threshold poems that linger long after the last candle flickers. Visit The Library of Ashes →

  • Made for the Burn – Neo-Gothic Confessional Romantic Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Made for the Burn is a meditation on intensity, desire, and the kind of connection that ignites something raw inside us. It’s about falling—not gently, not cautiously—but fully into the heat of someone who challenges, awakens, and reshapes the self. This poem honors the fire in others, but more importantly it honors the fire in my muse, and the courage it takes to sit close to it without fear.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person standing near a blazing fire, their face illuminated by the flames, symbolizing passion, intensity, and the courage to embrace desire.
    “Sitting close to the fire—embracing intensity, desire, and the lessons only heat can teach.“

    Made for the Burn
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I fell for her. No parachute.
    I fell for her for the fire,
    not the soft or the sweet.
    I was made for the burn,
    for every lesson heat could teach.

    She struck the match just by speaking—
    a spark in the dark that lit the fire of my yearning.
    And I never wanted gentle anyway.
    I wanted the blaze that strips you clean,
    the truth that hurts before it heals.

    She lit my shadows softly,
    laughed the fear right out of me.
    I didn’t choose the falling,
    but I chose the way I landed—
    open palms, open heart, unbroken faith.

    But it’s no delusion, I know she’s not mine,
    and it’s fine, ’cause I told her I’m not leaving.
    I’d be damned if I didn’t stay—
    ‘Cause I’m no liar,
    so I sit as close as I can to her fire.

    Feel the warmth brush against my skin,
    it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive.
    It’s like a drug coursing through my veins,
    I feel it inside—it’s what she does to me,
    and she does it beautifully,
    without even trying.

    For more of my poems, explore the Library of Ashes—a curated collection of work that dives into desire, darkness, and devotion.

  • Sermon for the Fractured – Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is a meditation on resilience, self-reclamation, and the sanctity of imperfection. I wrote it as a sermon for anyone who has ever felt broken, misfit, or misaligned with the world’s expectations. It’s a reminder that divinity exists in survival, in truth-telling, and in the courage to rebuild oneself repeatedly. For the fractured souls out there: this one’s for you.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure stands in a dimly lit gothic cathedral, bathed in colored light from stained glass, representing resilience and sacred rebellion.
    A sermon for the fractured soul—finding divinity and strength in imperfection.

    Sermon for the Fractured
    Sermon by Rowan Evans

    Every poem I write
    is a sermon for the fractured soul.
    Saint with a pen,
    heathen in the mind.
    I’m a preacher’s child
    gone wild—
    welcome to my church,
    it’s a service for the misfits.

    I crowned myself a deity.
    My divinity
    lives somewhere between
    G-O-D and Lucifer.
    I’m a morningstar, lightbringer.
    Or a shadow
    walking through a holy world.

    Your holy book
    banned my name.
    Heaven doesn’t want me,
    Hell doesn’t either.
    So I made
    Purgatory my kingdom.

    You don’t have to praise me,
    you don’t have to worship.
    I don’t need blind faith—
    for the miracles I create.
    You don’t have to suffer
    to prove a thing—
    your breath is devotion enough.

    You don’t have to
    sell me your soul.
    I will bless you,
    while you remain whole.

    I am not a deity without flaw—
    I’ve been cracked, fractured,
    put back together
    by my own hands.
    I’ve rebuilt myself,
    time and time again.
    So I don’t ask for perfection,
    I ask for confession,
    truth and witness.

    You can find more of my gospel in the Library of Ashes. [The Library of Ashes]

  • I Write – Bold Poetry by Rowan Evans | Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Unapologetic, Uncontained, and Fully Me

    This poem is me flexing. Not for anyone else—just for myself, for the part of me that has been writing for 22 years, quietly, consistently, and passionately. I Write is a celebration of range, of defiance, of unapologetic ego in the face of naysayers.

    It’s for the poets who refuse to shrink, the writers who keep creating even when no one’s watching, and anyone who’s ever been told “you can’t” or “you wouldn’t.”

    Poetry has always been my sword and my sanctuary, my rebellion and my worship. Here, I wield both unapologetically.

    — Rowan Evans

    Typewriter with scattered pages and ink splatters under candlelight, shadowy figure in the background symbolizing bold poetic creation.
    Bold, unapologetic, and overflowing with creative power—I Write by Rowan Evans.

    I Write
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I write love.
    I write pain.
    I write erotic.
    I write tame.
    I write rage.
    I write whimsy.
    I’ve got range—
    and they can’t stand me.

    They said I couldn’t do it—
    so I fuckin’ did it anyway.

    They said I wouldn’t do it—
    so I did it in their fuckin’ face.

    You say you write poems too?
    Then why’d your girl message me—
    said she read my romantic shit,
    wishing somebody would write like that for her.

    I responded simply—
    that’s what she deserves.
    Worship in words.
    A poem that told her
    what she’s worth.

    She said, “my man’s a poet,
    But he don’t write like you.”
    I responded with an ego—
    “Yeah, nobody do.”
    I mean, does…
    ‘Cause nobody does it like me.

    I said—
    I could write you
    a poem.
    Or two.
    Maybe three.
    Four, if you like.
    A thousand more.
    Rhyme it.
    Free verse it.
    Doesn’t matter.
    I’ll do it all.

    And that’s when—
    Your man said I couldn’t do it—
    so I fuckin’ did it anyway.

    He said I wouldn’t do it—
    so I did it in his fuckin’ face.

    Yeah.
    Nobody.
    Does it like me.

    So I did it
    in their fuckin’ face.
    And I’d do it again.

    If you want to see the full range of what I write, and discover the full breadth of my poetry in The Library of Ashes—an archive of ink-stained devotion, dark petals, and threshold poems that linger long after the last candle flickers. Visit The Library of Ashes →