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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Poetry

  • Caller ID: Destiny | A Poem About Dreams, Belonging, and Finding Home

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some dreams stay with me because of what happens in them.

    Others stay because of how they make me feel after I wake up.

    This poem belongs to the second kind.

    Lately, I’ve found myself dreaming about places I’ve never lived but somehow recognize. Cities that feel familiar before I arrive. Streets that carry a strange sense of belonging. When I wake, there’s often a brief moment where those places feel more like home than the room I’m actually in.

    That feeling became the heart of this piece.

    The image of a phone call arrived almost immediately. Not as a literal phone, but as the unmistakable sensation that something beyond my current life keeps trying to get my attention. The title came from asking myself what that call would look like if it appeared on a screen.

    Caller ID: Destiny.

    The final stanza is probably the most honest part of the poem.

    It’s not really about wanting to sleep.

    It’s about wanting to wake up somewhere that feels like I’m finally living the life I’ve been moving toward for years.

    Sometimes dreams aren’t an escape from reality.

    Sometimes they’re reminders that another future still feels possible.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person standing alone on a quiet street at dawn holding a glowing phone that reads "Caller ID: Destiny," while a luminous dreamlike city shines in the distance.
    Sometimes the loudest call doesn’t come from a phone—it comes from the life waiting for you beyond the horizon.

    Caller ID: Destiny
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    As the haze of sleep
    finally leaves,
    I find myself missing
    the dreams.

    In my sleep
    I walk the streets
    in the places
    that are calling me.

    It’s like my phone is ringing
    off the hook—

    caller id reads:
    Destiny.

    Message received:
    “Time to leave.”

    I’m done begging
    where I’m from—
    to notice me.

    I feel seen
    in my dreams,
    and invisible
    in my streets.

    So I’d rather sleep
    than be awake
    in this state.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Crossing the Sea (No Metaphor Left Behind)]
    A deeply personal poem about relocation, longing, and the realization that some truths naturally arrive through metaphor—even when we try to leave it behind.

    [Only Waiting (No Metaphor Left Behind)]
    The second poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind series, exploring the quiet ache of growing up in a place that never truly felt like home—and finally saying aloud what years of metaphor had been trying to express.

    [Returning to My Bones]
    Some dreams fade the moment we wake. Others leave behind emotions that linger long after reality returns. Returning to My Bones explores the strange grief of leaving a dream that felt real enough to matter.

    [Before My Feet Touch the Floor]
    What happens when your dreams feel more real than your waking life? Before My Feet Touch the Floor explores the strange grief of waking up, the lingering memory of dream selves, and the quiet question of which version of us is truly real.

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

  • Schrödinger’s Person | A Poem About Presence, Perception, and Existing Between States

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem began with a phrase.

    “Schrödinger’s Person.”

    The moment it entered my mind, I laughed.

    Then I realized it wasn’t really a joke.

    I’ve always been fascinated by the spaces between things.

    Between sleeping and waking.

    Between leaving and arriving.

    Between being understood and merely being seen.

    The famous thought experiment gave me a metaphor, but the poem isn’t really about quantum mechanics.

    It’s about perception.

    There are moments when I feel as though I exist in two places at once.

    One version of me is moving through the ordinary world.

    The other exists inside the minds of the people who know me, read my work, remember me, or think about me.

    Neither version is false.

    They’re simply different ways of existing.

    I think writers become especially aware of this.

    Our words continue living in places we’ll never visit, meeting people we’ll never meet.

    A poem can be read years after it’s written.

    A thought can continue existing long after the thinker has moved on.

    That creates a strange feeling.

    Part of you is always somewhere else.

    The final lines carry the emotional truth of the piece.

    Not that I cease to exist when no one is looking.

    Only that being perceived is one of the ways we feel most alive.

    Maybe that’s true for all of us.

    Maybe every human being exists in more than one state at once.

    The self we know.

    And the self that lives in someone else’s memory.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure appears between two overlapping realities, symbolizing existing in multiple states at once.
    Sometimes existence feels less like certainty and more like possibility.

    Schrödinger’s Person
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m drifting somewhere
    in the in-between—
    space is liminal here.
    This is where people go
    to disappear—
    you must exist
    with the fear.

    It’s like I’m here
    but I’m not—
    I’m somewhere else too.
    It’s like I exist—
    in two states
    at the same time.

    I am Schrödinger’s Person.

    You see—
    that sounds more dramatic
    than it is,
    I just mean—
    when you perceive me
    is when I live.

    Not that I don’t
    without you—
    because I do,
    but I really don’t want to.

    You see—
    the two states
    I exist in,
    here…

    and there.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Returning to My Bones]
    Some dreams fade the moment we wake. Others leave behind emotions that linger long after reality returns. Returning to My Bones explores the strange grief of leaving a dream that felt real enough to matter.

    [Before My Feet Touch the Floor]
    What happens when your dreams feel more real than your waking life? Before My Feet Touch the Floor explores the strange grief of waking up, the lingering memory of dream selves, and the quiet question of which version of us is truly real.

    [Just Beyond Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    [The Needle Doesn’t Point North]
    “The Needle Doesn’t Point North” is a deeply personal free verse poem about displacement, identity, and spending a lifetime feeling emotionally disconnected from the place you were born while being drawn toward distant shores.

    [The Streets I Walk When I Sleep]
    “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.

    [Separate Timelines]
    “Separate Timelines” is a surreal and deeply introspective free verse poem about emotional distance, time zones, vulnerability, and the fear of losing a connection that already feels meaningful before the words are ever spoken aloud.

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

  • For the World to Remember Me Again | A Poem About Headaches, Disconnection & Finding Focus

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece began exactly where it sounds like it did:

    With a headache.

    Not a dramatic one. Not a poetic one.

    Just the kind that makes it difficult to focus. The kind where every sound feels a little sharper than it should. The kind where your thoughts stop moving cleanly and start dragging their feet.

    I sat down intending to write about that feeling.

    But somewhere along the way, the poem became less about pain and more about disconnection.

    Because what struck me wasn’t the headache itself.

    It was the strange sensation of feeling slightly removed from the world around me.

    Like reality had taken half a step backward.

    Like I was still present, but not entirely anchored.

    The images of echoes, warped thoughts, blurred edges, and slipping focus all came from trying to describe that experience as honestly as possible.

    What surprised me was where the poem ended.

    I started by writing about a physical sensation.

    I ended by writing about recognition.

    About the desire to feel fully present again.

    To feel connected to yourself, your surroundings, and the moment you’re living in.

    The title comes from that realization.

    Because sometimes discomfort doesn’t make us feel absent.

    It makes us feel forgotten.

    Not by other people, necessarily, but by the world itself.

    As though we’ve drifted just far enough away from ourselves to notice the distance.

    And all we can do is sit quietly and wait for clarity to return.

    For the world to remember us again.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person sitting quietly with a headache as the world around them blurs and fades into soft echoes of light.
    “Some days it isn’t pain that feels overwhelming—it’s the distance between yourself and the world around you.”

    For the World to Remember Me Again
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve got a headache,
    can’t see straight—
    vision blurring at the edges.

    It’s the kind of headache—
    where even the silence
    is loud.

    And I sit in it,
    this ringing hush,
    like the world has stepped back
    and left me echoing alone.

    It’s like—
    every sound echoes
    in a cavernous skull.

    Like my thoughts are ricocheting
    off the walls of me,
    coming back warped,
    a little less mine
    each time—

    the rhythm
    loses a little bit
    of its rhyme.

    Every pulse is thunder,
    every heartbeat a warning—
    a storm gathering
    behind my eyes.

    I try to focus,
    but the edges keep slipping—
    like my mind is smudging
    under its own weight.

    So I breathe,
    slow and deliberate,
    hoping the world will settle
    back into focus—

    or at least…

    stop slipping away.

    And I wait,
    quiet as I can,
    for the world
    to remember me again.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Before My Feet Touch the Floor]
    What happens when your dreams feel more real than your waking life? Before My Feet Touch the Floor explores the strange grief of waking up, the lingering memory of dream selves, and the quiet question of which version of us is truly real.

    [Recognizes Home]
    A free-verse poem exploring the difference between love as dependency and love as choice. It challenges the idea that love must be need-based, instead centering the quiet strength of choosing someone while still remaining whole on your own.

    [Monster Theology]
    What if the monsters under the bed weren’t monsters at all? Monster Theology explores difference, belonging, and the human tendency to fear what we don’t understand through a conversation with the creatures we’ve spent our lives imagining.

    [Not Rebuilding You]
    A poem about love as an act of presence rather than rescue. Through construction imagery, Not Rebuilding You explores trust, devotion, emotional safety, and the quiet work of building a foundation strong enough for healing to grow.

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

  • Maybe You’ll Want Me Too | A Poem About Affection, Attachment, and Being Chosen

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems arrive because of a grand idea.

    Others arrive because a single sentence refuses to leave.

    This was one of those.

    The poem began when I remembered a conversation. A joke, really. Someone once described themselves as being “like a drug” and we laughed about it. At the time, it felt playful, exaggerated, harmless.

    But memory has a way of revisiting things from a different angle.

    When I thought about that conversation later, I realized what interested me wasn’t the comparison itself. It was the experience of slowly realizing that someone has become part of your everyday thoughts without you noticing exactly when it happened.

    One day they’re simply someone you know.

    Then they’re someone you think about.

    Then they’re someone who quietly occupies space in your mind when nothing else is demanding your attention.

    The drug metaphor gave me a doorway into the poem, but it isn’t really what the poem is about.

    It’s about affection.

    It’s about attachment.

    It’s about the strange vulnerability of admitting that someone matters.

    More than that, it’s about the difference between being needed and being wanted.

    Need can feel transactional.

    Want feels chosen.

    The final lines became the emotional center for me because they capture a hope I think many people carry but rarely say aloud:

    Not that someone has to stay.

    Not that someone owes us their attention.

    Just that maybe, if given the choice, they would choose us too.

    Like a lot of my recent work, humor and metaphor show up first. They’re familiar territory. They’re comfortable. They make difficult things easier to approach.

    But beneath the jokes, the poem is doing what many of my poems eventually do.

    It’s confessing.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure standing beneath glowing city lights as colorful streams of light drift through the air, symbolizing affection, attachment, and lingering thoughts of someone special
    Sometimes affection arrives quietly—slipping into your thoughts until you realize someone has become part of your everyday world. ✨

    Maybe You’ll Want Me Too
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I remember when you said—
    you are like a drug.

    It was all laughs
    about your exes being hooked,
    still shook by the thoughts of you.

    But I was getting second-hand
    contact highs—

    now I feel addicted too.

    It’s like you’re in my bloodstream.
    You’ve rewired my brain,
    rebalanced the chemical compounds—
    you’re in nearly every single thought now.

    I try to hide it behind metaphors
    and jokes—an attempt to mask
    the fragile hope—

    that you won’t need me,
    but maybe you’ll want me too.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Recognizes Home]
    A free-verse poem exploring the difference between love as dependency and love as choice. It challenges the idea that love must be need-based, instead centering the quiet strength of choosing someone while still remaining whole on your own.

    [Not Rebuilding You]
    A poem about love as an act of presence rather than rescue. Through construction imagery, Not Rebuilding You explores trust, devotion, emotional safety, and the quiet work of building a foundation strong enough for healing to grow.

    [The Language Her Soul Speaks]
    What if love isn’t about being understood, but learning to understand someone else? “The Language Her Soul Speaks” is a free verse poem about intimacy, communication, curiosity, and the desire to know another person beyond the limits of language.

    [Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)]
    A moonlit shoreline, a rowboat full of ducks, a piggybank with no cents, and a confession hidden in plain sight. Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3) explores how humor, wordplay, and absurdity can become a side door to vulnerability when the truth feels too difficult to say directly.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A moonlit shoreline, a rowboat full of ducks, a piggybank with no cents, and a confession hidden in plain sight. Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3) explores how humor, wordplay, and absurdity can become a side door to vulnerability when the truth feels too difficult to say directly.

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

  • Monster Theology | A Poem About Difference, Fear, and Human Connection

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve always thought it was strange that monsters get such bad press.

    Most of them never asked to be monsters in the first place.

    They’re usually just the things we’re afraid of. The things we don’t understand. The things we refuse to look at directly.

    What would happen if I stopped fearing the monsters under the bed and actually talked to them?

    The answer surprised me.

    Because once the conversation began, the monsters behaving like monsters.

    They became neighbors.

    Parents.

    Friends.

    People with lives beyond the role they had been assigned in my imagination.

    And that’s where the poem’s real interest emerged.

    Not in monsters themselves, but in the human tendency to create them.

    We have a habit of turning difference into danger.

    A habit of mistaking unfamiliarity for threat.

    A habit of reducing people to a single trait, label, identity, or assumption until they become something easier to fear than understand.

    The monsters in this poem don’t seem to share that habit.

    They celebrate what makes them unique.

    They recognize difference without treating it as division.

    They understand something many of us spend our lives trying to learn:

    There is a difference between being different and being separate.

    That’s where the title comes from.

    Theology is simply the study of what we believe.

    And Monster Theology asks a simple question:

    What if the monsters were better at being human than we are?

    Maybe the real lesson isn’t learning how to defeat monsters.

    Maybe it’s learning how to stop creating them.

    — Rowan Evans

    A child sits peacefully with a group of friendly monsters in a softly lit bedroom, symbolizing understanding and acceptance across differences.
    “Maybe the real lesson isn’t learning how to defeat monsters. Maybe it’s learning how to stop creating them.”

    Monster Theology
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve made friends
    with the monsters—
    in my closet,
    and under the bed.

    They used to scare me,
    but I realized
    I wasn’t judging them
    fairly.

    These monsters
    have feelings,
    children and lives
    outside of my room.

    I’m not the only one
    they visit,
    I’m not the only friend
    they have.

    They tell me
    about the others
    sometimes.

    But they aren’t allowed
    to talk about that a lot.

    So we’ll stick to the difference
    between their world and ours.

    They say it’s much the same,
    many lands with many peoples—
    but they find our focus
    on differences strange.

    They don’t understand
    why we fear what makes us unique.
    They don’t understand
    why we can’t acknowledge our strengths
    without diminishing others.

    To them—
    monsters are monsters,
    they are all the same
    but not.

    They celebrate
    what makes them different,
    the things
    that make them unique.

    Celebrate.
    Not separate.

    That’s the monster motto.

    And sometimes I wish
    we lived like they do—

    less afraid
    of what makes us different,

    less eager
    to turn each other
    into monsters.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Danny Phantom Theology]
    What begins as a metaphor borrowed from a childhood cartoon becomes something deeper: a reflection on existing between survival and possibility, exhaustion and hope, the life we have and the life we long for. Danny Phantom Theology explores what it means to keep moving toward a future that feels worth living.

    [Lone Wolf Theology]
    A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

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

  • Danny Phantom Theology | A Poem About Living Between Worlds and Choosing Hope

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem began with a cartoon.

    Or rather, it began with a metaphor borrowed from one.

    I’ve always been drawn to characters who exist between worlds—people who don’t fully belong in one place or another, who spend their lives navigating the space between identities, expectations, realities, and possibilities.

    When I thought about Danny Phantom, I realized the metaphor fit more than I expected.

    Not because I feel haunted.

    Not because I feel supernatural.

    But because I understand what it feels like to exist in two places at once.

    Part of me lives in the present moment—the practical world of obligations, routines, limitations, and survival.

    Another part lives somewhere else.

    A quieter place built from hope, imagination, memory, longing, possibility, and the belief that life can become more than what it currently is.

    For a long time, much of my writing has existed in the tension between those two worlds.

    The opening sections of this poem lean into that tension. They acknowledge exhaustion, frustration, and the feeling of carrying more weight than you’d like. But the poem isn’t interested in staying there.

    What matters to me is where it ends.

    Because this isn’t a poem about giving up.

    It’s a poem about wanting more from life than survival.

    About wanting a future that feels inviting instead of merely manageable.

    About believing that the light inside us isn’t meant to spend its entire existence fighting to stay alive.

    Sometimes it deserves the chance to burn because it’s excited.

    Excited about tomorrow.

    Excited about possibility.

    Excited about whatever comes next.

    Maybe that’s the real theology hidden inside the title:

    Not that we exist between worlds.

    But that we keep moving toward the one where we finally get to live.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure stands between a gray city and a glowing world of light and possibility, symbolizing living between survival and hope.
    Somewhere between the life we endure and the life we imagine, hope keeps the light alive.

    Danny Phantom Theology
    Poetry by Rowan Evan1s

    Sometimes I feel
    like Danny Phantom,
    a boy between worlds—
    one alive, the other
    a quiet place inside me
    where the light flickers
    but never fully goes out.

    I exist in both.
    But I do not thrive,
    most the time
    it barely feels like I’ll survive.
    I know that’s a little dramatic—
    it’s a bad habit.
    I know my words feel heavy,
    more than intended most the time.
    I know what it sounds like—
    it sounds like I don’t like life.

    But that’s not true—
    I’m a lover of life,
    a hater of the conditions.
    I want a change—
    in environment,
    in circumstance.

    I want a world
    where I don’t have to split myself
    to make it through the day,
    where the light inside me
    doesn’t flicker
    from exhaustion
    but from possibility.

    I want a life
    where survival
    isn’t the main objective.
    Where waking up
    isn’t an act of endurance,
    but anticipation.
    Where the light inside me
    doesn’t flicker
    because it’s fighting to stay alive—

    but because…

    it’s excited
    for what’s next.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Frankenstein’s Monster]
    Some poems are built to make a point. Others are built to reveal the mechanism. Frankenstein’s Monster (and I’m the Doctor) explores associative thinking, creative chaos, and the strange process of stitching disconnected ideas into something alive.

    [Lone Wolf Theology]
    A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

    [Before We Created the Labels]
    Ancient gods return to a fractured world shaped by borders, identities, and separation. “Before We Created the Labels” explores humanity’s divisions through mythic imagery, sacred ritual, and symbolic collapse—asking what remains when we learn to see one another beyond labels.

    [A Heart That Echoes in Another Language]
    A poetic journey through music across Japan, Korea, China, and the Philippines, exploring how sound becomes identity, memory, and emotional geography.

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

  • Not Rebuilding You | A Poem About Love, Trust, Healing, and Building Safe Foundations

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems arrive all at once.

    This one arrived in pieces.

    The opening came first—a joke, a banana peel, a little bit of wordplay and self-awareness. The speaker trips over their own feelings and tries to laugh about it before anyone notices.

    That’s fairly normal for me.

    Humor has always been one of the ways I approach vulnerability. Not because the feelings aren’t real, but because sometimes honesty becomes easier to hold when it’s carrying a joke.

    But somewhere during the writing process, the poem shifted.

    The focus stopped being the speaker’s feelings and became the person receiving them.

    Because love, at least the kind I’m interested in writing about, isn’t ownership.

    It isn’t rescue.

    It isn’t fixing someone.

    It’s creating safety.

    The construction imagery in the second half comes from that idea. The speaker isn’t trying to rebuild another person or erase their past. They’re trying to create something steady. Something reliable. A place where another person can set down their fears for a while and rest.

    That distinction matters to me.

    Too many love stories focus on saving someone.

    I’m more interested in what happens when you simply show up, consistently, and help build conditions where healing becomes possible.

    Brick by brick.

    Choice by choice.

    Day by day.

    The final lines grew from a belief I’ve carried for a long time:

    Everyone deserves a future that feels safe to stand inside.

    Everyone deserves foundations that don’t shake beneath them.

    And sometimes the greatest gift we can offer another person isn’t a promise to save them.

    It’s a promise to help build something that lasts.

    — Rowan Evans

    A new foundation being built beside old ruins at twilight, symbolizing healing, trust, and creating a safe future through love.
    Sometimes love isn’t about fixing what’s broken. Sometimes it’s about laying a foundation strong enough for someone to finally rest without fear of collapse. 🖤🧱✨

    Not Rebuilding You
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It happened quick.
    I slipped—
    banana peel.
    But you can trust me,
    I think I’ve proven that, (huh?)
    so you know
    you can trust
    what I feel is real.

    From the fear
    to devotion,
    loyalty in motion—
    I try to give you no reason
    to question.

    And you don’t need
    to return this.
    This isn’t a library,
    no overdue charge—
    just a gift straight from my heart,
    that I give with purpose.

    And if you’re wondering
    why I give like this…

    You’re worth it.

    I’d move earth,
    shift dirt—
    excavate
    to stop the hurt.
    Prepare the land
    for a new foundation.

    So let me lay brick after brick,
    patience in every layer,
    hope in every line.
    Not rebuilding you—
    just building a place
    where you can finally rest
    without fear of collapse.

    And if it takes time,
    I’m not afraid of slow miracles—

    because love like this
    isn’t renovation—
    it’s resurrection.

    A clearing of old ruins,
    a promise carved into the earth:
    you deserve a future
    that doesn’t hurt to stand on.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [The Language Her Soul Speaks]
    What if love isn’t about being understood, but learning to understand someone else? “The Language Her Soul Speaks” is a free verse poem about intimacy, communication, curiosity, and the desire to know another person beyond the limits of language.

    [Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)]
    A moonlit shoreline, a rowboat full of ducks, a piggybank with no cents, and a confession hidden in plain sight. Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3) explores how humor, wordplay, and absurdity can become a side door to vulnerability when the truth feels too difficult to say directly.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

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

  • The Answer Is (Yes) | A Poem About Creativity, Identity, and Refusing One Lane

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    People ask me what kind of writer I am fairly often.

    Usually they’re looking for a category.

    Poet. Romantic. Confessional writer. Storyteller. Surrealist. Humorist.

    Something simple.

    The problem is that none of those answers feel complete.

    I’ve spent more than two decades writing, and one of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that creativity rarely thrives inside a single box. Some days I want to write something tender. Some days I want to write something absurd. Some days I want to write mythology, philosophy, romance, comedy, or pure nonsense about raccoons riding llamas through space.

    The older I get, the less interested I become in choosing one lane.

    This poem emerged from that realization.

    It’s a self-portrait, but not in the traditional sense. Instead of describing who I am through facts, it describes me through the roles my writing occupies. Mythmaker. Confessor. Comedian. Romantic. Storyteller. Dream-architect. All of them are true. None of them are complete on their own.

    The final line is intentionally simple because sometimes the simplest answer is the most honest one.

    If you ask what kind of writer I am, the answer depends entirely on which poem you’ve just read.

    And if you’ve read enough of them?

    The answer is probably:

    Yes.

    — Rowan Evans

    A poet stands in a cosmic library surrounded by floating books, stars, mythological symbols, hearts, and pages representing many forms of creativity and storytelling.
    Mythmaker. Confessor. Comedian. Romantic. Storyteller. Some writers choose one lane. I chose all of them.

    The Answer Is (Yes)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    There are times
    when people ask
    what kind of writer I am—
    what I’m like,
    what I write.

    But there isn’t
    one answer.
    There never has been.

    I am a mythmaker,
    confessor comedian—
    I turn truth into story
    and story into survival.

    A philosopher,
    dream‑architect,
    pop‑culture alchemist—
    I stitch the sacred
    to the absurd
    and call it a heartbeat.

    I am not one lane,
    not one voice,
    not one version of myself.

    I write worlds
    into existence.

    A cosmic storyteller,
    meta‑narrator—
    I pull back the curtain
    and show the mechanism.

    I’m a surrealist.
    A romantic.
    A diss‑poet.

    I am every version
    of the truth
    my pen has ever touched.

    So if you ask
    what kind of writer I am—

    the answer is:

    yes.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Copy of a Copy]
    A sharp, self-aware poem about originality, imitation, and the search for an authentic creative voice. What begins as a diss gradually reveals itself as a meditation on authorship, influence, and the things that can never truly be copied.

    [Lone Wolf Theology]
    A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [Just Beyond Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise]
    Love has never come easily to me. This poem explores the fear, vulnerability, and quiet courage required to stay emotionally present when connection begins to matter deeply. “I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise” is about choosing love despite the risk of heartbreak—and promising to remain long enough to witness someone fully.

    [Before We Created the Labels]
    Ancient gods return to a fractured world shaped by borders, identities, and separation. “Before We Created the Labels” explores humanity’s divisions through mythic imagery, sacred ritual, and symbolic collapse—asking what remains when we learn to see one another beyond labels.

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

  • It’s Just Me but Super | A Poem About Imagination, Creativity & Becoming More Yourself

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece exists because my brain occasionally grabs a pun by the throat and refuses to let go.

    It started with a single phrase:

    “Wanda the Cosmo.”

    The moment I realized it sounded like wander the cosmos, the entire poem became inevitable.

    From there, it turned into a collision of things that shaped me growing up: cartoons, superheroes, imagination, ridiculous wordplay, and the habit of taking a joke far beyond the point where a reasonable person would stop.

    The references are intentional, but they aren’t really the point.

    What interests me is the thread connecting all of them.

    Timmy Turner. Doug Funnie. Quailman.

    They’re ordinary people living inside worlds that are a little bigger, stranger, and more magical than everyday life.

    And in some ways, that’s what writing has always felt like to me.

    A blank page is ordinary until imagination gets involved.

    Then suddenly you’re wandering the cosmos. Building constellations out of language. Turning metaphors into transportation.

    The speaker in this poem never actually becomes a superhero.

    Nothing supernatural happens.

    No powers. No cosmic upgrades. No secret destiny.

    Instead, the final line reveals the joke that was hiding in plain sight the entire time:

    “It’s just me but super.”

    Because that’s what creativity often feels like.

    Not becoming someone else.

    Not transforming into a different person.

    Just becoming a more exaggerated version of yourself for a little while.

    A little louder.

    A little stranger.

    A little more willing to follow an absurd idea all the way to the stars.

    And honestly?

    That’s where some of my favorite poems come from.

    — Rowan Evans

    A whimsical poet standing beneath a galaxy-filled sky surrounded by glowing constellations, notebooks, and symbols of imagination.
    Sometimes creativity isn’t becoming someone else—it’s becoming a more imaginative version of yourself and following the idea all the way to the stars.

    It’s Just Me but Super
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    They say I’m fairly odd—
    call me Timmy Turner.
    Watch me Wanda the Cosmo,
    a trip across the stars—

    Get it…
    Wanda the Cosmo?

    I am saying, watch me
    wander the cosmos—
    it’s a trip across the stars.
    Every stanza a constellation
    shaped in star dust,
    inked in the space between.

    And when I come back,
    re-entry will have me feeling Funnie—
    I’ll write about it like
    “Hey, journal, it’s me, Doug.”
    I cannot fail, man—
    like my alter ego is Quailman.

    It’s just me but super.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [100 Grand and a Book Deal]
    A playful collision of candy bars, comic book heroes, basketball legends, and cosmic metaphors. Beneath the jokes lies a reflection on twenty-three years of writing, creativity, and the dream of building something lasting one line at a time.

    [Copy of a Copy]
    A sharp, self-aware poem about originality, imitation, and the search for an authentic creative voice. What begins as a diss gradually reveals itself as a meditation on authorship, influence, and the things that can never truly be copied.

    [Lone Wolf Theology]
    A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [Just Beyond Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [It’s You I Choose]
    A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

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

  • 100 Grand and a Book Deal | Candy Bars, Cosmic Rhymes & Building a Writing Life

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece exists because I started chasing a joke and never stopped.

    It began with the phrase “candy bars” and my brain immediately decided that if I was going to use that line, then I had a responsibility to see how many directions I could stretch it before the whole thing collapsed.

    Apparently the answer was: quite a few.

    Music bars. Candy bars. Space metaphors. Basketball references. Superheroes. Bob the Builder.

    At some point I stopped asking where the poem was going and just followed it.

    What surprised me is that beneath all the wordplay and punchlines, a theme quietly emerged on its own.

    I’ve spent twenty-three years writing.

    Long enough that writing no longer feels like something I do—it feels like part of the architecture of my life. Every poem, every story, every abandoned draft, every late-night idea scribbled into a notebook has contributed to the person I became.

    So while this piece is intentionally playful, there is a small truth hiding inside all the jokes.

    The lines about Jordan, Batman, Thor, and building aren’t really about any of those things.

    They’re about creation.

    About spending years building something that didn’t exist before.

    A voice. A body of work. A universe made from language.

    The title came from one of the many candy references, but it also captures the spirit of the piece perfectly.

    Part joke. Part aspiration.

    Because if you’ve spent decades writing, I think you’re allowed to dream a little.

    And if that dream happens to include a 100 Grand and a book deal, well…

    I won’t argue with it.

    — Rowan Evans

    A poet stands in a cosmic landscape surrounded by floating candy bars, stars, books, and galaxies, symbolizing creativity, ambition, and a lifetime of writing.
    Every bar starts somewhere. Sometimes with candy. Sometimes with stars. Sometimes with a dream worth building one line at a time.

    100 Grand and a Book Deal
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    My taste in music is crazy,
    I guess you could say—
    I listen to looney tunes.

    The sound comes from
    across the stars,
    I provide out‑of‑this‑world bars.
    So when we get together
    it’s a Space Jam.

    I’m soft like nougat,
    I write candy bars—
    with a punchline
    that hits so hard,
    it’s got a CRUNCH
    like Nestle’s.

    Milky Way thoughts—
    going cosmic
    every time I brainstorm.
    An Airhead?
    Maybe—
    I keep my head
    in Fluffy Stuff clouds.

    And I won’t stop,
    won’t give in
    until the Payday hits—
    100 Grand
    and a book deal.

    Every poem’s a hit.
    I don’t miss—
    like my name’s Steph Curry.

    23 years GOAT’d,
    Jordan in his prime—
    the way I pen my rhymes.
    Did it with no Pippen.
    No Rodman—
    I am Batman, no Robin.

    I built this house myself.
    Swinging hammers,
    call me Odinson—
    Bob the Builder
    building something.

    I made this universe
    line by line—

    and every bar I drop
    is mine.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Copy of a Copy]
    A sharp, self-aware poem about originality, imitation, and the search for an authentic creative voice. What begins as a diss gradually reveals itself as a meditation on authorship, influence, and the things that can never truly be copied.

    [Lone Wolf Theology]
    A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

    [L Words & Heart]
    A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.

    [Just Beyond Waking]
    A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.

    [Twin Suns, Sister Moons]
    A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.

    [It’s You I Choose]
    A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.

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