Returning to the Same Page I originally wrote I Started Writing for Me (I Kept Writing for You) on October 6, 2024.
Nearly two years later, on September 27, 2026, I came back to it.
I wasn’t trying to replace the original. I wanted to see what would happen if I approached the same poem from a different place in my life—same foundation, same heart, but a little more distance between the person who wrote it and the person reading it now.
The original was written as a reflection on why I started writing: at thirteen, poetry was private. It was where I put the things I couldn’t say anywhere else. Over time, though, those private words became bridges. The poems stopped existing only between me and the page and started reaching other people.
That’s still true.
But revisiting the poem made me realize that some things don’t need to be abandoned simply because you’ve grown. Sometimes you return to an old piece and discover that the person who wrote it was already saying something you still believe—you just have more language for it now.
This remix is therefore not a correction.
It’s a conversation with my younger poet-self.
The original asked why I started writing for me and why I eventually kept writing for you.
The remix asks what that answer looks like now.
The ink changed slightly.
The poet changed considerably.
But the reason I keep writing?
That part hasn’t changed.
— Rowan Evans
Two years later, I returned to the same poem—and discovered I wasn’t the same poet who wrote it.
I Started Writing for Me (I Kept Writing for You) (Remix) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I started writing for me,
a whisper in the night,
with ink as my solace—
my heart took its flight.
At thirteen—
I spilled secrets,
raw and unrefined—
pouring out my soul,
seeking peace of mind.
In the quiet of shadows,
I danced with despair—
words wrapped around anguish—
a truth laid bare.
But the world felt so heavy
and I seldom would share—
my verses held captive,
caught in the air.
Then came my twentieth birthday—
a surprise I could see,
a dawn breaking softly;
I hadn’t thought I’d be.
With each passing year,
I unfurled like a rose—
exploring my journey,
the darkness I chose.
My pen became magic,
transforming my pain—
in the depths of my sorrow,
a beauty would reign.
For in life,
shadows enhance the light—
without the dark’s embrace,
we lose sight of the bright.
I wove personal stories
into universal truths—
crafting connections
through my letters and oaths.
Every poem a testament,
a bridge built anew—
an exploration of love,
each word just for you.
My poetry’s a mirror,
reflecting the maze
of identities tangled
in a delicate haze—
inviting you closer,
to embrace what you feel—
for in every line penned,
there’s a wound that can heal.
Writing is my sanctuary—
where pain turns to art.
Illuminating the depths,
illuminating the heart—
so I keep writing for you
with each turn of the page—
a tapestry of voices,
a life I’ll engage.
Through the shadows and light,
I find strength to be free—
in the dance of my verses,
I write endlessly.
For the journey’s not over—
the ink flows anew,
I started writing for me—
I sometimes look back at the person I was when I first started writing and wonder how much of that younger version of me is still sitting somewhere inside every poem I create. I started writing at thirteen, the same year I experienced my first heartbreak. Back then, ink wasn’t simply a creative outlet. It was a way to hold myself together, to give shape to feelings I didn’t know how to carry, and to leave a record of myself on the page when I was afraid of losing pieces of who I was.
The Ink Hasn’t Changed is about revisiting those beginnings without confusing familiarity with stagnation. The same emotions still find their way into my work: joy, grief, anger, tenderness, laughter, and pain. I’ve continued mapping my soul through poetry, stitching together broken pieces and filling the cracks with whatever gold I could find. The tools and materials may feel familiar, but the person doing the stitching is not the same.
There’s a difference between carrying the same weight and never moving forward. Sometimes, growth means discovering that the thing that once kept you alive can become something you choose to nurture, refine, and share.
My ink hasn’t changed because its purpose never needed to. I have changed. I’ve survived. And the words that once helped me hold myself together now help me understand who I’ve become.
— Rowan Evans
The ink that helped me survive at thirteen still carries my truth at thirty-six. The ink hasn’t changed. I have.
The Ink Hasn’t Changed Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve been stuck in the past a lot lately,
just thinking about who I was—
who I was trying to become
and how those early days
set the stage for who I became,
on and off the page.
The same year
I committed myself to ink,
I tasted my first heartbreak—
it was bitter sweet,
hated that it had to come,
but nothing could be done.
That was 2003, I was thirteen—
and she was made to leave.
I took the shattered pieces,
collected in a basket—
I took threads of silver
and sewed myself
back together again.
Cracks patched with gold and ink,
confessions penned in golden ink—
back then
I wrote for me—
I wrote to keep it together,
mentally—
afraid I’d disappear
if I didn’t map my soul in ink.
Turned poetry to cartography,
started mapping the whole of me.
I mapped my soul, wholly—
turned my pain holy.
I tried to translate all of me—
the joy, the pain,
laughter and grief—
and my ink hasn’t changed.
It’s still carrying the same things.
All the same weight, wait—
does that mean I’m stuck in place?
No, just because the ink
has stayed the same—
doesn’t mean I have—I’ve changed,
I’m not the same as I was at thirteen,
now that I’m thirty-six—
and I’m not the same as I was at sixteen,
that’s when I thought my ink was real mean—
but really it was too nice,
the only thing keeping me alive.
It’s Almost Like I Know What I’m Doing is a little self-audit that turns into a flex before I can stop it.
I started by wondering whether my writing had become too much swagger and not enough emotion—whether the ink was simply running free without anything underneath it. Then I remembered how long I’ve been doing this, where some of that rhythm came from, and why I learned to turn anger into cadence and pain into something that could make me laugh.
Maybe the swagger isn’t the absence of emotion.
Maybe it’s one of the ways I’ve learned to carry it.
This piece is me looking at the machinery behind my own writing and realizing that the things I sometimes question—rhythm, rhyme, comedy, aggression, timing, and instinct—aren’t accidents anymore.
They’re tools.
And apparently, after all these years, I might actually know how to use them.
— Rowan Evans
After twenty-three years of shaping ink, maybe the swagger isn’t accidental.
It’s Almost Like I Know What I’m Doing Poetry by Rowan Evans
It’s like my writing has become
all swagger, no emotion—
it’s like the ink is coastin’,
like the edge of the sea—
but there’s no tide to guide me.
So my lines run free—
sometimes that’s not a problem for me,
other times it feels like it ends tragically,
like I’m going to say some shit,
and make people mad at me—
but if it happens naturally,
I’ll take the consequences, happily.
When the switch flips
and my mind shifts—
I can feel the slow drip,
emotions begin to slip
and my thoughts trip—
trip up and stumble,
drop the ball—fumble.
It’s only round one,
get ready to rumble—
this is a battle,
a bit more than a scuffle,
slide my feet—shuffle.
I’ve got twenty-nine years
putting marks on paper—
twenty-three years
as a real ink shaper—
I’ve poured my heart into this,
my whole life has been ink-stained—
spent years translating pain,
nearly thirty years,
laying my rage on the page—
it started early—
I was maybe nine or ten,
getting bullied back then.
I hated the bullies, hated school too.
Hated the fact they thought
they were too cool—
too small to fight back,
but I could write—
so I could bite back.
Used my ink to launch an attack,
went full scale—
you see,
I cut my teeth on bars
and that’s why—
my lines go hard.
I started at nine
learning the legends rhymes—
y’all gon’ make me lose my mind,
until even I’m asking
what My Name Is…
Never mind. False alarm.
I found it—
it was inside rhyming,
learning comedic timing—
yeah, I took the rage
and taught it how
to joke its way
across the page—
whether happy or in pain.
All it changed is
how I worded some things,
it’s almost like—
I know what I’m doing.
Journey into the Hexverse
[New God With a Pen] A battle-poet power fantasy where Superman’s rage, Batman’s fear, Darkseid’s cosmic authority, and the Anti-Life Equation collide with rhyme, turning an ordinary pen into something worthy of New God status.
[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.
[The Sacred Timeline] From childhood stories about Dragon Ball Z, Power Rangers, and Pokémon to gothic cathedrals, ravens, roses, identity, healing, and experimentation, The Sacred Timeline traces how Rowan Evans’s relationship with the pen evolved across thirty-six years—and how the ink remained while the writer kept changing.
The Sacred Timeline is a map of how my relationship with the pen has changed over nearly three decades of my life.
I started with stories about worlds that already existed—Dragon Ball Z, Power Rangers, Pokémon—and slowly began building worlds of my own. Then the pen became a way to learn cadence, translate music, hide things I couldn’t say aloud, survive periods when writing itself became difficult, and eventually turn pain into something crafted enough to share.
Every era left something behind: the storyteller, the songwriter, the secret keeper, the gothic romantic, the heretic, the battle poet, the confessor, the mythmaker. Some symbols came and stayed. Some meanings changed. Some questions took decades to become clear enough to write down.
And the timeline is still moving.
At thirty-six, I don’t consider the pen mastered so much as understood differently. Writing is still an experiment. The boundaries keep moving. The imagery keeps evolving. The person holding the pen keeps changing.
Maybe that’s the most sacred part of the timeline: the ink stayed, but I didn’t.
— Rowan Evans
Thirty-six years, countless pages, one pen—and an identity still being written.
The Sacred Timeline Poetry by Rowan Evans
I picked up a pen for the first time at seven, I was just writing stories then— Dragonball Z, Power Rangers and Pokémon… that’s what I wrote about way back when—
it was much lighter out, the sun had yet to meet the clouds— I was a natural storyteller, a real lore keeper, weaving lore before I even knew what lore meant. It was like this for years, I created my own space in worlds provided by minds much older than mine.
Then at ten—I switched what the pen meant to me, my creativity shifted mentally— no longer was I just a storyteller, I was letting music be the teacher now. Translating thoughts to song, at least the words of it— I was writing to worship something. Something that in six short years, I would begin to question—
but the years between ten and then—were spent, using the pen to learn cadence. I was trying to learn to perform on the page— I couldn’t do it in body, but I could turn a notebook to a stage.
At twelve things began to shift again, but with me, not with the pen— I still felt the sun, I still saws its rays, but I also saw more cloudy days— that year was hard for me, I couldn’t talk about it with clarity— most people would react like, “you’re scaring me”— so I stopped talking about it really, I closed my lips, but still let the ink spill— the page became a secret keeper, keeping the secrets this storyteller was too afraid to say out loud.
Thirteen the skies went dark— this is when life really got hard. At the beginning of the year, it’s like the ink in my pen had begun to dry— I don’t know what was wrong, but I couldn’t write. I tried and I tried— pages ripped from notebooks, balled up and scattered.
No songs, no stories— I had lost interest in things that I used to find most interesting. Parents took me to the doctor, and the doctor said—
“This kid’s depressed— and anxious too, I’ll write a prescription that should do. A referral for therapy, they’ll get them to talk— they’ll find out what’s wrong.”
A week would go by— giving the medicine a try, it takes time— it has to build up in your system. In the meantime, here’s a therapist, someone to talk to— they’ll listen to your problems, they’ll help you.
And they did—a little bit, they got me to talk a little bit too. But still they saw I was holding back— so they recommended journaling, but that felt tedious and boring. I needed to find a way to make it play— bring a little joy to it, even if falsified.
I made it a game to translate my pain— how many ways could I say everything? Is it possible to flip it? Maybe change the script and shift the meaning? These were the questions I began to ask— even when my ink ran in all black—
back when my heart was all cracks, before I learned how to use the gold to patch— I struggled through, just writing purely what I felt— thirteen, fourteen and fifteen, often felt like hell.
Sixteen, I hit my stride— not in life but with a pen, things were hard still, but now I could translate with skill. Not much, if we’re being honest— just enough to keep the pain beautiful, in case someone else saw it—
Seventeen, I did it again— reinvented myself with the pen, more gothic in my intentions. Maybe I finally read Poe, who knows— but ravens became a part of my soul.
At eighteen, I went from church steeples and church people to writing cathedrals for outcasts and heretics— we hadn’t yet, become luminous. Shadows and lace, velvet and venom— but I also opened my eyes more, became more aware of the world around— outside the borders I’m confined in.
At twenty, I started to write for people more—to uplift, and let them know they’re not alone— whatever they were going through, there was somebody with them. Even from a distance—
I had friends across seas, in places with palm trees— and in places with Kangaroos, even scarier—Emu.
I don’t know what that means in this piece—but it’s true, so do with that, what you’re going to do.
At twenty-two, I got more serious about the ink— I started to write everything. Every thought and every half-formed idea— I just put it on a page, my brain would not be a cage.
Then came twenty-five, the lowest point in my life— it wasn’t a sudden crash, but a slow rot— it bled through every thought, a feeling I couldn’t translate, familiar but different, heavier somehow— so the ink slowed to a drip, I started to let thoughts slip.
Twenty-six, I got serious again— more aggressive with the time spent, my pieces became more crafted and the ink was shaped with intention. Ravens, the moon, and roses too— the symbols I began to use.
I ascend on the back of raven wings— the silver light of the moon pierced the canopy—rose petals drift in the shifting currents of the wind. Everything connects, pay more attention and you’ll become more aware—
At thirty— I really began to question everything— who I was, who I am, who I want to be— and that’s still a question I’m working on answering. But it went deeper than that— I was questioning who I was in a deeper sense, like had I been a façade in some sense. Was I playing the role I was assigned, or being true to who I thought I was becoming?
This became a recurring theme in my poetry— it’s an odd thing to discover so late in life, that the person you thought you were— isn’t who you’re supposed to be. So I chased answers in ink to questions I couldn’t fully ask yet.
There were two more years of this— and I’m still not finished.
Thirty-three hit with another shift— I mixed the light with the shadow, it was Easter in the cathedral— pastel colors lit up the stained glass. My imagery began to shift shades— roses in all colors, pastel hues, but the thorns were still there too. So even my softness had bite—
and it evolved more, by thirty-four— more teeth but more softness too. Brighter hues and deeper shadows— this is when I learned, you can’t have one without the other.
The shadow needs the light to cast— and you need the shade to dim the shine, because too much shine— you might go blind.
Then came thirty-five— the modern era, the current phase, one year before the current day— and I know this won’t age well, it’s too time specific—
Finally, we’ve reached thirty-six, and I feel like I’ve mastered this— but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped learning, because every day is an experiment— really, it’s all about the experience— just learning new things and pushing it, finding where the boundary is and bending it, you gotta realize— you can’t always give a shit, who cares what they think— it’s your ink—shape it how you see fit.
Journey into the Hexverse
[The Metaphor Machine] A poem that takes apart its own machinery as it runs—breaking lines, breaking thoughts, and following metaphors from moonlight to tides, oceans, shorelines, and city streets.
[Exhibit A (The Evidence)] A quick-witted, unapologetically playful poem about writing fast, crossing lines, roasting the competition, and letting rhythm do the talking.
[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.
