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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: PoetrybyRowanEvans

  • 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].

  • The Scourge They Named in Whispered Psalms – A Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Manfiesto

    Rowan Evans
    A gothic cathedral interior bathed in cold blue light. In the foreground, a defiant woman in black reaches forward, while behind her looms a shadowy silhouette pierced by arrows. Her long hair and dress ripple like smoke, embodying both vulnerability and strength.
    “They said I was a prophecy, a creature carved in smoke and sin…”
    A visual echo of the hunted girl turned heretic, the shadow we carry and survive.

    This isn’t just a poem. It’s the ache of being seen too little—or too much. Of being told you’re ‘too much’ when you’re just trying to exist honestly.

    The Scourge They Named in Whispered Psalms is a manifesto from the margins – a declaration of identity, resilience, and sisterhood in the face of erasure. It belongs to all who have been misnamed, misunderstood, or made to feel monstrous for simply being.

    I invite you to stand with me – not behind or ahead – but here. Together.

    “The Scourge They Named in Whispered Psalms”
    Poetry by Rowan Evans
    (A Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Manifesto)

    They said I was a prophecy,
    a creature carved in smoke and sin,
    the girl who slipped through cracks in sermons—
    a heretic with velvet skin.

    I walk in heels upon their myths,
    each step a hymn they tried to burn,
    a flame that dared to name itself
    before their rigid tongues could turn.

    How monstrous, that I raise my voice
    to praise the worth of every woman—
    how dare I speak of sisterhood
    with scars they say I wasn’t born in.

    I am the shame beneath their altars,
    the blush they curse but cannot name,
    a sacrament in satin bones
    who bleeds, yet isn’t held the same.

    I was never him. I was silence.
    A chrysalis misnamed by fate.
    But even wrapped in borrowed tones,
    I trembled like a bride in wait.

    They say I steal what isn’t mine—
    as though divinity is rationed.
    As if my ribs were not first broken
    to give my soul a rightful fashion.

    Do you think it makes me stronger?
    That I carry this war in my marrow?
    No—
    It only means I’ve learned to sing
    while pulling arrows from my shadow.

    I’m not here to replace you,
    or to climb atop your grief-wrought throne.
    I only ever wanted space
    to write a name that felt like home.

    So yes, be scared. I’m dangerous.
    I love too hard. I dream too loud.
    I dare to say I’m beautiful
    without the world’s reluctant bow.

    Let them say I have advantage—
    let them spit it like a curse.
    But if I write the stars in anguish,
    it’s not to claim that I hurt worse.

    It’s just—I know what it’s to be
    the hunted girl in holy war.
    And still I’d reach for every hand
    who ever felt they could be more.

    You don’t need to kneel beside me.
    But sister, won’t you stand?
    Not behind—nor far ahead—
    just here. Together. Hand in hand.

    [About Poem]

    This piece is rooted in a genre I created: Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism—a fusion of gothic imagery, personal truth, sacred longing, and emotional rebellion. Inspired by the legacy of Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Sappho, and modern poetic voices, this poem speaks to those of us made to feel like heretics simply for existing as ourselves.

    It is my poetic prayer for trans women, queer femmes, sacred misfits, and anyone who has ever been othered in the name of tradition. It holds both fire and softness—a torch lit from the ache of being erased, and the quiet hope of being seen.

    A woman in a black gown sits behind a stained-glass altar, wearing a crown of thorns and halo of iron. Candles glow around her as blood-red drapes pool like velvet fire. The glass behind her bears the silhouette of a shattering figure, suggesting both violence and divinity.
    A sacrament in satin bones.
    The girl they named a scourge now sits in sanctuary—unburned, unbroken, and holy in her own name.

    How does this poem resonate with your own experiences of identity and visibility?

    What lines stood out to you most, and why?

    Have you ever felt like the “hunted girl in holy war”? What helped you keep going?

    Share your thoughts in the comments or your own creative work. Your voice is welcome here.

  • Don’t Need to Be First, I Just Want to Be The Last

    Rowan Evans

    I didn’t arrive with fireworks.
    No trumpet of fate announced my coming.
    I stepped into your life
    like rain slipping through the cracks of an old roof—
    gentle, persistent, quiet.

    You didn’t see me at first,
    your eyes were too full of smoke
    from the fires they set in your soul.
    But I saw you—
    the way moonlight sees a battlefield after war,
    not for the blood,
    but for the wildflowers growing through the bones.

    They loved you like a tempest,
    tore through your softness
    and called it passion.
    They mistook your silence for surrender
    and your loyalty for something to conquer.
    But I am not a storm—
    I am the stillness that follows.
    I am the breath you forgot to take.

    You don’t need to open the door all at once.
    Leave it ajar—
    I’ll wait on the porch of your trust
    until your ribs remember how to unlock.

    They got to your heart first—
    left it threadbare and trembling.
    But I’ll be the one who sits beside it
    without asking it to perform.
    You don’t need to shine for me—
    I will love you in shadow.

    Let them be the architects of your ache.
    I will be the gardener of your healing.
    I’ll trace the map of your scars
    like constellations no one else stayed to name,
    and I’ll kiss each one
    like a holy place
    I am blessed to touch.

    I don’t need to be the first to hold your hand,
    just the last to let it go.

    Let them be the spark,
    the flame,
    the blaze that blinded.
    I’ll be the hearth—
    quiet, warm,
    steady in the long winter of your doubt.

    You are not shattered, my love—
    you are stained glass,
    lit from within.
    And I am the pew beneath your cathedral soul,
    content just to be close,
    just to kneel and whisper your name
    like a sacred hymn.

    You are not a burden.
    You are a blessing that learned to walk with a limp.
    You are the poem they tried to rewrite,
    but I’ll read you as you are—
    every crossed-out line, every redacted verse,
    every unfinished sentence—
    and still call you complete.

    Because I don’t want to be your first.
    Let them hold that hollow crown.
    I want to be your last—
    the one who stays
    when the curtain falls and the world forgets,
    the one who wraps their arms around the quiet ache
    and says, I see you.
    You don’t have to run anymore.

    And when the night softens into dawn,
    I will be the gentle hand that brushes your hair from your face—
    warm fingertips tracing the curve of your cheek,
    the subtle scent of rain and jasmine lingering on your skin,
    the quiet breath that hums your favorite song—
    a lullaby that holds you safe.

    I will be the promise
    in the slow unfolding of morning light,
    the softness of a whispered name
    lingering between us like a secret.

    Let them fade like shadows on forgotten walls.
    I will be the light in your slow sunrise—
    steadfast, unwavering,
    the last embrace
    you reach for
    when the world grows still.

  • The Weight of Wonder

    Rowan Evans

    I’m terrified—not the kind of fear that fades,
    but the kind that lives in my bones,
    whispering at every quiet moment,
    reminding me that I might break the one I finally hold close.

    Because I know what it’s like to be broken,
    to feel like a cracked mirror—
    and sometimes, I catch myself reflecting that same fracture.
    What if my cracks cut them?
    What if my shadows swallow their light?

    I’m scared of being the echo of every hurt they’ve tried to forget—
    the ghost that follows behind love,
    slowly unraveling it, stitch by stitch.

    I want to be their shelter,
    but I’m afraid I’m just another storm,
    a storm that leaves bruises they never asked for.

    I carry the weight of past failures—
    not just mine, but the ones I fear I’ll repeat.
    Because love isn’t just a feeling—
    it’s a responsibility, a fragile treasure
    that can shatter if held too tightly,
    or lost if held too loosely.

    I want to protect them from the pain,
    but what if I become the pain?
    What if my best isn’t enough,
    and the person I love ends up hurting anyway?

    I think about love like the Mona Lisa—
    so rare, so precious, so infinitely valuable—
    and I’m terrified I’ll look away,
    unaware of the masterpiece in my hands,
    until it’s marred beyond repair.

    Maybe I’m afraid because love demands truth,
    and sometimes I’m afraid of what that truth reveals—
    my own brokenness, my own fears,
    the dark places I’ve never fully faced.

    But even with all that fear,
    I want to try.
    To learn how to be the balm,
    not the bruise.
    To hold them like they are the last light I’ll ever find in the dark.

    Because love—real love—shouldn’t be a battlefield.
    It should be home.

    And I’m so desperate to come home.