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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: psychological poetry

  • Lost the Plot | A Poem About Identity, Control, and Rewritten Stories

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a strange kind of disorientation that comes from feeling like your life should make sense… but doesn’t.

    Like you missed a chapter.
    Or something important got cut before you ever had the chance to understand it.

    Lost the Plot leans into that feeling–but not just on a personal level. It questions what happens when the narrative itself isn’t entirely yours. When the direction shifts, not because it should… but because something behind the scenes decided it needed to.

    We’re often told that confusion is internal.
    That if we feel lost, it’s something we need to fix within ourselves.

    But what if part of that feeling comes from the story constantly being rewritten?
    From forces we don’t see, shaping outcomes we’re expected to accept?

    This piece sits in that space–between personal disconnection and a growing awareness the “plot” might not be as natural as it seems.

    Sometimes it’s not that you lost your way.

    Sometimes… the story changed without you.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing on a broken film set with scattered reels and a looming studio above, symbolizing loss of identity and control
    What happens when the story isn’t yours anymore?

    Lost the Plot
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I feel like I’ve been
    getting lost a lot lately.

    Like I’ve forgotten
    who I was,
    who I am—
    who I was becoming.

    I’m feeling like
    I’ve lost the plot,
    like the studio
    lost the reel
    that we shot.

    No longer
    can I see
    where I began.

    We got cancelled
    before we
    got going.

    We never saw an end.

    But we weren’t
    cancelled because of
    interest.

    We were cancelled
    because the studio
    got scared.

    Ratings were good.
    The audience cared.

    But they cared too much.

    It was causing
    connection,
    so the studio
    had to change
    direction.

    The studio,
    needs the divide—
    keeps people
    scared and wide-eyed.

    So there’s always
    someone—
    to point to,
    to name as the bad guy.

    The boogeyman.

    So we look to the stars,
    as if they could solve
    the problems.

    As if it wasn’t
    the studio—
    the writer’s room
    behind every decision.

    It was them—

    in the writer’s room,
    rewriting endings
    we never got to reach.

    Ratings be damned.

    The show goes on—

    we just don’t
    exist in it anymore.

    Journey into the Hexverse!

    [Another Fire]
    A powerful poem exploring global chaos, systemic inequality, and emotional exhaustion in a world where conflict grows faster than it can be understood.

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

  • Can’t Tell the Difference | A Poem About Dreams, Memory, and Love

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes the mind doesn’t separate things as cleanly as we’d like.

    Memory, imagination, longing–they start to overlap. What you’ve felt in dreams can become just as vivid as something you’ve physically lived. And after a while, the line between the two doesn’t disappear… it just stops mattering in the same way.

    Can’t Tell the Difference lives in the space.

    It’s not about confusion in a chaotic sense–it’s about the quiet disorientation of something feeling real enough to hold weight, even if you prove it happened the way you remember.

    Because emotion doesn’t always follow logic.

    And sometimes the question isn’t “did this happen?”
    It’s “why did it feel like it did?”

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing above a glowing city at night, with blurred dreamlike figures walking hand-in-hand below, symbolizing the line between memory and reality.
    Where memory and dreams blur—
    and feeling becomes its own kind of truth.

    Can’t Tell the Difference
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand on the edge
    of what’s real—
    and what isn’t.

    But I can’t tell
    the difference.

    Is it a dream,
    or a memory?

    I don’t know anymore.

    I’ve held your hand before.
    I know I have—
    there is no way,
    that was just a dream.

    It was too real.

    I could feel
    the sweat on your skin,
    the heat in the air—
    humidity clinging,

    busy streets alive
    with Jeepney beeps.

    So what is real?
    Is it what you’ve lived—
    or what you feel?

    Was it real
    or a dream,
    when I looked you in the eye,
    and said—

    I love you.

    Because I felt that.

    I felt the words
    leave my lips—

    I love you…

    echoing,
    like a record skipped.

    Every night
    in my dreams,
    I meet you
    on city streets.

    We walk,
    we talk,
    hand in hand—

    conversations
    only I could imagine.

    We talk about life,
    but never the future—
    just the now.

    The current moment.

    Because we move the same—
    drifting forward,
    unchained.

    And still—

    I stand on the edge
    of what’s real,
    and what isn’t.

    And I can’t tell
    the difference.

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

  • Through the Shattered Glass II: A Haunting Poetic Thriller by B.D. Nightshade

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Through the Shattered Glass II is a continuation of a fractured exploration of memory, trauma, and lingering presence. Written from the perspective of the “other” in a haunting, spectral voice, it blurs the line between witness and participant, reality and echo. The poem is meant to unsettle and mesmerize, leaving questions unanswered—because some truths exist only in fragments.

    Shattered mirror reflecting faint ghostly silhouettes in a dimly lit, dark room with scattered papers.
    Through the shards of memory, the echoes remain…

    Through the Shattered Glass II
    Fragmented Nightmare: Through Another’s Eyes
    Poetry by B.D. Nightshade

    Shards.
    Red, silver, sharp—
    I cut my palm on what isn’t there.

    A laugh—too low, too close,
    slips beneath the floorboards,
    slithers into my chest.

    I remember the air.
    Cold, metallic.
    Or was it hot, burning my throat?

    Footsteps echo backward,
    though I never moved.
    A hand grazes my shoulder—
    I recoil. No one is there.
    Yet the pulse in my veins
    screams I am not alone.

    Mirror.
    Fractured.
    Eyes staring—mine? Yours?
    I reach—
    and the reflection spits me out.

    Something drips.
    Clock? Heart? Faucet?
    I follow.
    Red. Wet. Wrong.

    A scream.
    Or a whisper.
    Or a laugh I know too well.

    Memory fractures—
    two bodies, one space,
    and the space is infinite.
    The other, the same,
    or just a shadow trailing mine?

    I crouch over shards,
    bare feet sticky with nothing and everything.
    Hands tremble—they belong to someone else.
    Or maybe to both of us.

    A name?
    No.
    Nothing.
    Just the ache of presence,
    the itch of absence,
    the smell of iron in the hollow of air.

    I feel her—
    or him—
    or the echo—
    pressing against me from everywhere
    and nowhere.

    Was it laughter?
    Was it pain?
    Was it memory, or the ghost of memory?

    Shadows twist.
    I am falling.
    Or rising.
    Or sinking in place.

    The floor tilts.
    The walls bend.
    My pulse, a hammer.
    My breath, a blade.
    My scream—
    stuck.

    Still.
    Here.

    Shards of me, shards of you,
    swirling, bleeding,
    unclaimed,
    untouchable,
    and the world bends around the space
    where we were—or were not.

    And I—
    I remain.

    Closing Note

    The fragments linger. Perhaps you have glimpsed them, perhaps you have not. In the spaces between breath and shadow, in the shards of memory that refuse to settle, the story continues—both everywhere and nowhere. Beware what haunts the mirrors.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    Through the Shattered Glass — B.D. Nightshade
    Step back into the shattered world and follow the echoes… Can you uncover what really transpired?

    If you would like to explore beyond this mystery, you can find more of my work in The Library of Ashes.

    ✦ Poetic Commissions by Rowan Evans ✦

    Every word I write is a devotion, a fragment of shadow and light carefully shaped into verse. On my Ko-fi, I offer custom poems, personalized rituals in language, and lyrical messages crafted just for you—or someone you wish to honor, surprise, or remember.

    Whether you seek:

    A poem for a loved one, friend, or muse

    A ritualized or thematic verse for special occasions

    A written reflection to say everything you struggle to

    …each commission is approached with care, reverence, and the intensity of my signature Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.

    ✨ Special Offer: Use code NGCR25 at checkout to receive 25% off any commission until the end of the month. Let these words become your keepsake, your offering, your moment of devotion.

    Commission a Poem on Ko-fi →