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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: raw poetry

  • The Mind’s Winter: A Poem About Emotional Withdrawal, Overthinking, and Missing Someone

    Rowan Evans

    This wasn’t planned as part of the current sequence.
    Some things just need to be written–and shared–when they happen.

    Author’s Note

    There are patterns we don’t always notice until we’ve lived them more than once.

    The same thoughts.
    The same timing.
    The same quiet retreat inward.

    The Mind’s Winter comes from recognizing one of those cycles in real time–watching myself disappear into my own head, knowing it’s happening, and not always knowing how to stop it.

    It’s strange, being both the one experiencing something and the one observing it. To understand the “why,” but still feel pulled into it anyway.

    This piece isn’t about solving that pattern.

    It’s about naming it.

    About acknowledging the way overwhelm can turn inward, how distance can grow even when you don’t want it to, and how sometimes the things that matter most are the very things that scare us into retreat.

    And maybe, in recognizing the cycle…

    there’s a chance to break it.

    — Rowan Evans

    A lone figure stands in a quiet winter landscape, surrounded by bare trees and falling snow, symbolizing emotional withdrawal and introspection.
    Sometimes the cold isn’t outside—it’s the space we retreat into when everything becomes too much.

    The Mind’s Winter
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    February 8th, 2026—
    I got sick again.
    It happens every year
    like clockwork.
    It starts with the headache,
    caused by being overwhelmed.

    It starts slowly,
    then snowballs
    into more.

    You see, this period of time—
    it usually comes after
    what I tend to call
    the mind’s winter.

    I slip into a deep void
    of thought.

    January 8th…
    that’s the date.

    That’s when I drift inside.
    I get lost in my mind,
    and I stay there—
    one month—I’m gone.
    Lost in thought.

    One month
    leading up to my “big day,”
    the one they say
    should celebrate me.

    But I don’t see it that way.
    It’s just another day.

    And usually,
    I bounce back.
    It’s quick…

    but this?

    This feels like an attack—
    one month in my head,
    two weeks sick and then?

    I broke my glasses—
    vision—
    I lost access.

    And the longer I’m gone,
    the more I pull away,
    even as I—

    want to stay.

    You know what
    the worst part is?

    The worst part is—
    that I know why.

    I know why I do it…
    why I pull away.

    I’ve said the reason
    a hundred times,
    in nearly as many rhymes.
    It’s because you meant
    too much to me.
    I got scared and retreated
    into me.

    So here it is—
    March 21st,
    and I—

    I haven’t spoken to you
    since February 6th,
    and if I’m honest—

    I miss you.

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

  • Not Begging, Just Tired – A Raw Poem About Faith, Identity, and Emotional Exhaustion

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Not Begging, Just Tired lives in that quiet space between breaking and continuing.

    This piece isn’t about giving up–it’s about what comes after the questions, when certainty fades and all that’s left  is awareness. It explores the tension between faith and doubt, between the voice that offers an easy escape and the part of us that still chooses to struggle, to grow, to stay human.

    There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from weakness, but from enduring–feeling everything, questioning everything, and still moving forward without clear answers. This poem sits in that space.

    It’s not a resolution.
    It’s not a victory.

    It’s a choice.

    To stay.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person kneeling in a dim room with soft light behind them, symbolizing emotional exhaustion and quiet resilience.
    Not begging—just tired, and still choosing to stay.

    Not Begging, Just Tired
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m on my knees again,
    begging—please again.
    My brain freezes,
    and I get lost within.

    Confronting sins.

    Am I who I want to be?
    I mean it—truthfully.
    Am I exactly who I want to be,
    or just who I became?

    And the devil whispers…

    He speaks to me,
    I hear him clearly.
    He says he’ll set me free—
    no need to beg or plead.

    But I don’t want ease.
    It’s the challenge I need.

    What comes easily
    is never worth the cost.
    What’s a dream
    if it means
    you lose your humanity?

    God… if you’re listening—
    can you hear me whispering?

    I’m not begging,
    I won’t plead,
    but I’m getting tired
    of having to bleed.

    I’ll be honest—
    I’m not sure if you’re real,
    but I think I used to feel you
    when things got too heavy,
    when life felt a little too rough.

    Back before
    life kind of fucked me up.

    There’s always
    a before and an after.
    Before—there was laughter.

    But that was last chapter.
    This one’s been
    a little too heavy.

    To leave?
    I’ve been a little too ready.

    I don’t mean
    leave permanently—
    I just want to be
    in a different scene.

    Somewhere I don’t feel
    at home through a screen.

    Have you felt
    out of place
    in a place
    that was supposed
    to be your home?

    And still—
    you felt alone…

    Not in a way
    that filled you with despair,
    but in a way
    that made you more aware.

    I’m not begging—
    just tired…
    and still choosing
    to stay.

    [Calculating Profits]
    Calculating Profits (Ledger of Lives) is a raw anti-war poem confronting how modern conflict is often reduced to statistics, strategy, and spectacle. Through stark imagery and direct language, Rowan Evans challenges the “us vs. them” narrative and reminds readers that behind every number in war’s ledger is a human life.

  • 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