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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Protective Love

  • Mahal Ko Ako – A Fierce Love Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is me claiming my lane—and hers. Some love isn’t gentle. Some love doesn’t whisper. Some love says fuck off to anyone who dares mess with the person you care about.

    It’s about seeing yourself, owning your power, and then using it to carve out a safe, unshakable space for someone else. It’s protective. It’s fierce. It’s loyal. And yes… it’s a little bit savage, because sometimes love has to be.

    Consider it a love letter, a shield, and a warning—all rolled into one.

    Warm firelight reflecting on an urban driveway at night, symbolizing protection and fierce devotion.
    Some love protects. Some love roars. Mahal Ko Ako – Rowan Evans.

    Mahal Ko Ako
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    They think I don’t really like myself,
    because I sometimes say I hate myself—
    but really, I’m always feeling myself.

    So I’ll say it simply—mahal ko ako,
    I’m somebody nobody can fuck with.

    Trust me, I know—pangit ako,
    I didn’t just forget; I own a mirror.
    I know what I look like,
    but I know what I can give.

    So when you think something cruel,
    I’ll say it before you can.
    I’ll take that power away from you.
    A bully with no power—
    they’re just noise.

    Now—let’s switch focus.

    Yeah—
    I’m looking at you, asshole.
    You add stress on her.
    Unnecessary stress.

    Me?
    I ease the storm.
    Give her a safe place
    to rest.

    When her world caves in,
    who does she run to?

    Here’s a hint:
    it isn’t you.

    And just so we’re clear—
    when you fuck up, I hear about it.
    Like when you said…

    You liked her for her dominance?
    But her attitude is too much?
    That’s a skill issue.

    Are you a man or a boy?
    Sounds like…
    You’re a little bitch.

    Then, with such audacity,
    you said she was too pretty—
    that no white guy would like her
    because she’s “not exotic enough.”

    Hi—white guy here.
    And I’m white,
    as fresh snow.
    I like her just fine.
    Exactly as she is.

    One more thing—
    “Exotic”? Not for people, asshole.
    That’s for cars only.

    Fuck you.
    Have a nice day.

    For more of my poetry, you can find it here: The Library of Ashes

  • Retribution in Shadows | Dark Gothic Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Content warning: contains imagery of revenge and violence. This poem is catharsis and fiction; it does not condone real‑world harm.

    Author’s Note

    I wrote “Retribution in Shadows” on November 5, 2024 — the afternoon before someone I would come to care about walked into my orbit. At the time it was an experiment in voice: the shield that rises when you’ve watched someone you love be hurt and felt powerless to make it right.

    This poem is not an instruction; it is a feeling made language — the visceral, righteous imagining of a protector who chooses the shadowed path of vengeance in fiction because sometimes rage needs a form. It is a confession, a performance, and a prayer for justice that lives in mythic tones rather than real action. Read it as the honest, dark music of someone who would rather break the night than let another sunrise find a bruised heart.

    — Rowan Evans

    Silhouetted figure in shadows moving through a dim, Gothic hallway, moonlight highlighting edges, representing secrecy and poetic vengeance.
    “In the shadows, the voice of justice whispers.”

    Retribution in Shadows
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    When she whispered your name,
    Her voice cracked like glass,
    Eyes rimmed in sorrow,
    Bruises painted like dusk on her skin—
    In that moment, I swore your reckoning would begin.

    I watched from the shadows,
    Your every careless stride,
    Studied the rhythms of your ordinary life,
    Each step a beat in the dirge of your demise.

    And when the night fell thick and soundless,
    I cut the power, cloaked in the dark,
    Slipped through the cracks you left wide,
    Moving like vengeance, swift and stark.

    Up the stairs, where silence reigns,
    Your breath soft, blissfully blind—
    I crept, unseen, your oblivion growing,
    My heartbeat a dirge, slow and unkind.

    I could see you there, sprawled and serene,
    Innocent, unaware of the reckoning near.
    I craved the look that would crack your mask,
    The flash of terror—the taste of your fear.

    For each tear she shed, each silent plea,
    I became the weight, the steel, the fire.
    Not for mercy, not for grace,
    But for the justice of her unwept cries,
    A reckoning for wounds unseen by daylight’s gaze.

    In the shadows, I am retribution’s breath,
    Silent, sharp, and set to descend—
    To haunt, to end, to steal your peace,
    And let her bruised heart find release.

    Closing Note

    If this poem shakes something loose in you — anger, sorrow, a memory — you are seen. Creative rage can be a way of naming wrongs; healing often requires more than imagination. Be gentle with yourself. If you need to talk, reach for someone who will listen without minimizing you: a trusted friend, a peer, or a professional. And if you want to sit in the dark with me for a while longer, comment below — I read everything.

    — R.