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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: raw poetry

  • 22 Confessions: Raw & Intimate Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    One confession for every year I have been writing.
    Some truths are small.
    Some are unbearable.
    All are mine.

    Handwritten letters on a dimly lit desk with a pen and shadowy figure, evoking introspection and confessional poetry.
    22 Confessions: One poem for every year, revealing truths both small and unbearable.

    22 Confessions
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I.
    i have told someone
    i loved them,
    when i didn’t mean it—
    just to see if i could.

    II.
    i stare at my reflection
    too long.
    still—
    i don’t see what others do.

    III.
    i’ve held grudges
    longer—
    than i’ve held hands.

    IV.
    i crave chaos in silence,
    as if noise
    could make me
    alive.

    V.
    i have written letters
    i will never send.
    they carry my soul.
    anyway.

    VI.
    i envy people who forget.
    i remember
    everything.

    VII.
    i love someone
    so deeply,
    it hurts—
    to breathe around them.

    and still—
    they are never mine.

    VIII.
    i sometimes wish
    i could be unremarkable
    just for a day.

    IX.
    i judge myself
    harder than anyone else
    ever could.

    X.
    i laugh at the wrong moments
    to hide the right ones.

    XI.
    i hold people to impossible standards,
    and silently blame myself
    when they fail.

    XII.
    i have hurt the innocent
    to protect myself.
    i called it survival.
    it was selfishness.

    XIII.
    i crave being seen—
    but panic when i am.

    XIV.
    i have whispered secrets
    to strangers
    i would never share
    with friends.

    XV.
    i write confessions
    i pray nobody reads.

    XVI.
    i have loved my own pain
    more than i have loved—
    anyone else.

    XVII.
    i sometimes pretend
    to be stronger
    than i feel.

    XVIII.
    i am afraid of being ordinary.
    extraordinary terrifies me too.

    XIX.
    i have loved
    the idea of people
    more than the people themselves.

    XX.
    i keep parts of myself
    in boxes
    even i cannot open.

    XXI.
    i crave connection—
    but it terrifies me—
    every single time.

    XXII.
    i am still learning
    how to forgive myself.
    before it is too late.

    Closing question:

    I’ve confessed 22 truths. Which one would you admit aloud?

    To read more of my work, check out the archives: [The Library of Ashes]

  • Splinter Gospel – A Poem of Fracture & Unrepentant Softness

    Rowan Evans

    ✦ Author’s Note ✦

    This piece was born from exhaustion, from the bone-deep ache of being the keeper of others’ ruins while my own remain untouched.
    It isn’t a prayer for rescue—it’s a confession that even when we splinter, we still speak, still love, still remain.
    Thank you for reading my broken gospel.

    ✦ Content & Care Advisory ✦

    These words dwell in shadows of grief, loss, and the ache of unseen burdens. They speak of sorrow, despair, and the fragile pulse of the human heart. Read only if you feel steady, and remember—your safety, your breath, your life are sacred. You are not alone in the dark.

    Cracked porcelain angel in candlelight, symbolizing brokenness and tenderness.
    A gospel written in the language of fracture.

    ✦ Invocation ✦

    Before you read, know this was never meant to save me.
    These words were built from splinters,
    stitched together by loneliness and the quiet ache of being unseen.
    If they cut, let them cut honest—
    for this gospel was written in the language of fracture.

    Splinter Gospel
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    This depression
    is pressin’
    down on my lungs.
    And I can’t breathe.

    I gasp and gasp,
    trying to grasp
    any reason to stay alive—
    when I just want to die.

    I’m never enough.
    Always too much.
    My life is a constant
    fucking contradiction,
    a paradox—

    I am always the shoulder,
    never the lover—
    always the one who stays,
    but easily replaced.

    I am the prayer they whisper
    when loneliness gnaws,
    but never the answer
    they keep when dawn comes.

    I am always the fixer,
    the one who pieces them back together—
    only to be left in the dust.
    An afterthought.

    I hold their ruins,
    but no one holds mine.
    A vessel for everyone’s ache—
    but never a name they choose to keep.

    Even knowing that—
    I stick around.
    It’s emotional masochism,
    I crave the ache, so I—

    I stay until I splinter,
    then watch them leave,
    carrying only the softness
    I begged them to see.

    ✦ Benediction ✦

    May your cracks speak louder than your silence.
    May your softness outlive those who failed to hold it.
    And if your gospel must splinter—
    let it still be yours, and yours alone.

    ✦ Read Next (Suggestions) ✦

    [Cry to the Quiet] — Sacred Desperation
    [Luminescence & Shadow] — A Forbidden Litany
    [A-Woman] — Confession at the Altar of Her
    [Reliquary of Broken Sons] — A Vignette of the Broken Saint & Clown Prince

    Or explore the full archive in [The Library of Ashes]—and if your own confession aches to be written, [commission a custom poem here]. NGCR25 at checkout to get 25% off your ‘request’…

  • Still Here –  A Poem About Suicidal Thoughts, Survival, and Hope

    Rowan Evans

    [Content Warning]
    This poem includes references to suicidal thoughts and mental health struggles.
    Please read with care and know that support is always available.
    If you are in crisis, please reach out to someone—or to me directly. 💜

    You are not alone. Your pain is real. Your survival is sacred.

    [Intro]
    This is one of the hardest poems I’ve ever written—and maybe one of the most important.
    It’s for anyone who’s ever stood on the edge, feeling like no one could reach them.
    It’s about survival, memory, and the quiet miracle of being still here.
    If you’re reading this and hurting, know this:
    You’re not alone. And I’m not going anywhere.

    “Still Here”

    I’ve thought about it,
    a time or two.
    about what I would do,
    if you ever failed to get through—

    To pierce the fog in my mind,
    if there wasn’t a single reason I could find,
    to stay, to hold on just a little longer—
    as I stood on the ledge,
    overlooking the ocean’s edge.

    I swore I’d never let it get to this point,
    I would fight to keep from losing myself,
    but I slipped, tripped and got lost along the way.

    Wandering through my mind scape,
    trying to find an escape—
    trying to have an S on my chest and a red cape.

    But I’m not a hero,
    just a person with too much heart
    and not enough quiet.

    Still, I write.
    Still, I breathe.
    Still, I wait for your voice
    to cut through the dark, a lighthouse
    leading me through the storm fog.

    Because if you ever stopped reaching,
    I don’t know if I’d remember
    how to swim.

    So I clutch these memories
    like life perservers—
    your laugh, your light,
    the way you once told me
    I was more than the weight I carry.

    And I whisper back,
    even when you can’t hear me—

    I’m trying,
    I’m still here.
    Hanging by a thread,
    sometimes curious
    about the taste of lead.
    But no longer do I wish I were dead.

    So I plead, so I never slip again—

    Please.
    Keep calling me home.

    [Author’s Note]
    If you’re feeling suicidal, please—reach out.
    To a trusted friend, a family member, a professional.
    Or, if those feel too close… too complicated…

    Reach out to me.

    You don’t have to go through this alone.
    You matter.
    Your voice matters.
    And I will hold space for you.

    rowan@poetrybyrowanevans.com

    With all my heart,
    – Rowan