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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: reflective poetry

  • The Ink Hasn’t Changed | A Poem About Healing, Growth & Writing to Survive by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I sometimes look back at the person I was when I first started writing and wonder how much of that younger version of me is still sitting somewhere inside every poem I create. I started writing at thirteen, the same year I experienced my first heartbreak. Back then, ink wasn’t simply a creative outlet. It was a way to hold myself together, to give shape to feelings I didn’t know how to carry, and to leave a record of myself on the page when I was afraid of losing pieces of who I was.

    The Ink Hasn’t Changed is about revisiting those beginnings without confusing familiarity with stagnation. The same emotions still find their way into my work: joy, grief, anger, tenderness, laughter, and pain. I’ve continued mapping my soul through poetry, stitching together broken pieces and filling the cracks with whatever gold I could find. The tools and materials may feel familiar, but the person doing the stitching is not the same.

    There’s a difference between carrying the same weight and never moving forward. Sometimes, growth means discovering that the thing that once kept you alive can become something you choose to nurture, refine, and share.

    My ink hasn’t changed because its purpose never needed to. I have changed. I’ve survived. And the words that once helped me hold myself together now help me understand who I’ve become.

    — Rowan Evans

    An adult poet reflects beside a translucent younger version of herself at a writing desk with black and golden ink, a cracked bowl repaired with gold, and map-like patterns symbolizing healing and personal growth.
    The ink that helped me survive at thirteen still carries my truth at thirty-six. The ink hasn’t changed. I have.

    The Ink Hasn’t Changed
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been stuck in the past a lot lately,
    just thinking about who I was—
    who I was trying to become
    and how those early days
    set the stage for who I became,
    on and off the page.

    The same year
    I committed myself to ink,
    I tasted my first heartbreak—
    it was bitter sweet,
    hated that it had to come,
    but nothing could be done.
    That was 2003, I was thirteen—
    and she was made to leave.

    I took the shattered pieces,
    collected in a basket—
    I took threads of silver
    and sewed myself
    back together again.
    Cracks patched with gold and ink,
    confessions penned in golden ink—

    back then
    I wrote for me—
    I wrote to keep it together,
    mentally—
    afraid I’d disappear
    if I didn’t map my soul in ink.

    Turned poetry to cartography,
    started mapping the whole of me.
    I mapped my soul, wholly—
    turned my pain holy.
    I tried to translate all of me—
    the joy, the pain,
    laughter and grief—
    and my ink hasn’t changed.

    It’s still carrying the same things.
    All the same weight, wait—
    does that mean I’m stuck in place?

    No, just because the ink
    has stayed the same—
    doesn’t mean I have—I’ve changed,
    I’m not the same as I was at thirteen,
    now that I’m thirty-six—
    and I’m not the same as I was at sixteen,
    that’s when I thought my ink was real mean—
    but really it was too nice,
    the only thing keeping me alive.

    Journey into the Hexverse

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

  • The Chapter After This One | A Poem About Hope, Fate & Writing Your Own Future by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes, the mind wanders somewhere between waking and dreaming, and the unfamiliar begins to feel strangely like home. Maybe it’s just a dream. Maybe it’s imagination playing with possibilities. Or maybe it’s a reminder that the life we’re living right now isn’t the only story we could ever tell.

    The Chapter After This One is about looking beyond a present that might not feel right and remembering that the story isn’t finished. We don’t always get to choose the circumstances of our current chapter, and we can’t simply flip to the ending to see whether everything works out. Sometimes, we have to keep reading, even when the road ahead is uncertain.

    But reading isn’t all we can do. We can question the direction, challenge the expectations, and pick up the pen ourselves. We may not control every twist in the plot, but we can make choices that shape what comes next.

    The future isn’t a page we’ve already read. It’s a chapter we haven’t reached yet—and perhaps, in more ways than we realize, we’re already helping to write it.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure stands on an unfamiliar dreamlike street beside an open book and fountain pen, watching a winding path lead toward a golden horizon that symbolizes an unwritten future.
    You may not be able to skip to the ending, but you can still pick up the pen and help write what comes next.

    The Chapter After This One
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been drifting today—
    constantly somewhere in-between
    awake and asleep—
    between reality and a dream.
    One moment, I’m sitting alone—
    the next I’m walking streets I’ve never known.

    Yet somehow,
    those streets feel like home.

    I can’t say for certain where I was,
    but I had a pretty good idea—
    it felt familiar but not,
    like I was getting a preview—
    for a future plot.
    Like the writers for my life—
    were showing me,
    I’m not stuck in the story I got.

    And while it’s true,
    I may not like the current chapter—
    I just have to keep reading,
    to find out what comes after—
    you cannot skip ahead,
    that’ll only lead you down
    the wrong road instead.

    If you don’t like the direction,
    pick up a pen—become a co-writer then.
    You can’t rely on, just anyone,
    take matters into your own hands.
    You can shape fate, you can write
    for your own life—
    you know you can guide
    the plot, right?

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Everything and Nothing]
    What happens when you’re quiet but observant, overwhelmed yet seemingly empty, surrounded by beauty but sometimes seeing only decay? Everything and Nothing is a confessional poem about overthinking, mental exhaustion, contradiction, and the absurd humor that helps us keep going—even when we’re wobbling in socks and Crocs.

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

  • Half a Picture | A Reflective Poem About Being Seen Through Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There is a strange kind of intimacy in being known through words.

    A reader can walk through your thoughts, recognize pieces of themselves in your metaphors, and feel close to the person behind the page. Sometimes that closeness becomes something deeper—feelings forming around a voice, a mind, a collection of carefully chosen pieces of a life.

    But a page is still only a page.

    Half a Picture steps into that uncomfortable space between being seen and being truly known. It isn’t dismissing the feelings that can grow through poetry; those feelings can be completely real. It is simply looking at what happens when someone falls for the person they’ve encountered through the words, while the rest of the picture remains outside the frame.

    — Rowan Evans

    An open poetry notebook beside a photograph showing only half of a person's blurred image, symbolizing the partial picture readers receive through writing.
    You can know someone’s words by heart and still only have half the picture.

    Half a Picture
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m going to talk about something
    I don’t talk about a lot—

    it’s an interesting thing,
    the way people cling—

    messages received—

    “I love you,”

    excuse me, what?
    That’s a strong way to start—
    and I’m flattered, really.

    But they don’t know me,
    not really—
    I know they think they do,
    because they’ve read my words—
    seen my mind
    and walked through my thoughts—

    that’s how they feel,
    and to them it’s real—
    who am I to say it’s not?

    But they fell in love
    with half a picture—

    a blurred photo—

    and a vague description of me.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [All for Me]
    When thunder becomes applause, lightning turns into paparazzi, and rain rolls out a flooded red carpet, one poet starts wondering whether nature’s celebration has gone a little too far.

    [Lessons Without Kindness]
    A reflection on learning self-respect from a relationship that changed—the lessons hidden in manipulation, silence, and loss, and the realization that you don’t have to shrink yourself to make someone else feel tall.

    [The Metaphor Machine]
    A poem that takes apart its own machinery as it runs—breaking lines, breaking thoughts, and following metaphors from moonlight to tides, oceans, shorelines, and city streets.

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

  • You Still Pop Into My Brain | A Reflective Poem About Moving On by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some people leave your life in a single, dramatic moment. Others fade through a series of small decisions, subtle disappointments, and lessons you never asked to learn. And sometimes, long after you’ve moved forward, a familiar name still wanders through your thoughts—not because you want them back, but because they once occupied a place in your everyday life.

    This piece sits in that strange space between moving on and remembering. It doesn’t reach backward with longing or anger. It simply acknowledges that even when someone no longer belongs in your life, the mind may occasionally forget to stop looking for them.

    — Rowan Evans

    A poet sits beside a window with an open notebook as a fading silhouette outside represents a lingering memory from the past.
    Some memories still visit. They just don’t feel like home anymore.

    You Still Pop Into My Brain
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    You look at me now,
    and see—
    someone better than
    who I used to be—
    but that’s all
    thanks to you—
    if I hadn’t learned the lessons,
    if you hadn’t switched up
    and made me see—
    you were never the one for me.

    It didn’t come all at once,
    it came in steps for me,
    you began to pull away, gradually—
    it was little things at first,
    you’d do things you thought would hurt—
    introduced me to him,
    just so you could flirt—
    thinking I’d see it,
    and feel like dirt—
    but it didn’t work.

    Because for me,
    it was whatever—
    we weren’t officially together.
    We never talked, exclusive—
    so who would I be
    to be mad to begin with?

    No, I wasn’t mad—
    I was more like your parents,
    just disappointed
    in who you had become.

    You used to be someone
    in my life—
    I used to reach for my phone
    every time something happened—
    wanting to tell you,
    and sometimes I still do.
    It’s a strange feeling
    because it’s been so long—
    and it feels so wrong,
    that you sometimes—

    still pop into my brain.

    But it’s not the same—
    it’s not how it used to be.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Lessons Without Kindness]
    A reflection on learning self-respect from a relationship that changed—the lessons hidden in manipulation, silence, and loss, and the realization that you don’t have to shrink yourself to make someone else feel tall.

    [Circle of Me]
    A reflective poem about sitting among the voices of memory, joy, pain, and fear—and realizing that some burdens are bigger than any one person.

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

  • Circle of Me — A Poem About Memory, Shared Pain, and the Weight We Carry | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes you sit quietly long enough to hear things you’ve spent years trying not to hear.

    This piece comes from that kind of silence—the kind where the voices around you become just as important as your own.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure sitting within a circle of shadowy figures representing memories, emotions, and shared burdens.
    Sometimes the hardest thing to carry is realizing you were never carrying it alone.

    Circle of Me
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I sit in a circle of me—
    for the first time
    since I was thirteen,
    just listening…

    because it’s not
    my turn to speak—

    some share joy,
    some share pain—

    and others share memories
    that are hard to hear—
    and in their voices
    I could hear the fear,
    in their eyes, see the tears—

    and I feel helpless now,
    just as I did back then
    but now it feels different.

    Heavier.

    Like I’m not
    just carrying
    the weight of one—

    I’m carrying
    the weight of the sum.

    It’s all of us…

    it’s everyone.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [High Tide]
    A short reflective poem about leaving, returning, and accepting the forces that pull us back—like the tide guided by the moon.

    [Louder Than the Rain]
    A short confessional poem about the overwhelming noise of anxious thoughts, the strange silence of feeling alone in a crowded room, and finding a way to translate pain into words.

    [Poet’s Curse]
    Poet’s Curse explores the painful side of falling too deeply: giving pieces of yourself away freely, taking accountability for your own heartbreak, and realizing that learning to let go can be harder than learning to love.

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

  • High Tide — A Poem About Returning, Distance, and Surrender | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some things in life move in cycles—leaving, returning, rising, falling. Sometimes we fight those movements, and sometimes we simply learn to recognize the tide when it comes in.

    — Rowan Evans

    A moonlit ocean rising toward the shore at high tide beneath a full moon.
    The tide rises, the tide falls—and sometimes we find ourselves returning with it.

    High Tide
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I said I wouldn’t leave,
    then I did but came back.
    So I guess—high tide—
    the way the water does,
    it rises then falls low—
    guided by the moon from afar, so…
    I guess I can’t be mad
    that you’ve got control.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Louder Than the Rain]
    A short confessional poem about the overwhelming noise of anxious thoughts, the strange silence of feeling alone in a crowded room, and finding a way to translate pain into words.

    [My Nightmare]
    A poem about the nightmare of loving someone across distance, seeing the world from different perspectives, and holding onto the hope that the cracks can still be repaired—and that someday two separate shores might become one.

    [Rose & Ruin]
    Two minimalist poems exploring the opposing forces within creativity: the thoughts we cultivate into something beautiful and the darker thoughts we transform before they have a chance to decay.

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

  • Through My View by Rowan Evans | A Free Verse Poem About Perspective, Imagination & Individual Experience

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Perspective is one of the strangest things we possess.

    Two people can stand in the same place, witness the same moment, and walk away carrying completely different worlds inside them.

    I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that—not as something that separates us, but as something that makes us interesting.

    This poem isn’t saying one perspective is better than another. It isn’t about claiming superiority.

    It’s about accepting that no one else can inhabit your mind.

    No one else sees exactly what you see, makes the same connections, or experiences the same emotional landscape. We can describe our inner worlds through art, conversation, and metaphor, but there will always be a distance between experiencing something and hearing someone describe it.

    As a poet, I spend much of my life trying to bridge that distance.

    This poem acknowledges that the bridge will never be perfect—and that’s okay.

    Our perspectives don’t need to become identical to be meaningful.

    Sometimes it’s enough to simply recognize that every person is looking through a different window.

    — Rowan Evans

    A surreal sunrise over towering mountains, a vast ocean, and a fading moon, symbolizing a unique personal perspective on the world.
    No one else can stand exactly where you stand or see the world through your eyes.

    Through My View
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s eight,
    I hear the birds chirp.
    It’s late, I’m awake—
    what’s new?

    Silence.
    It’s violence—
    the words that I choose,
    when I’m cut loose.

    Like my thoughts,
    I’m off leash—
    you can’t stop me.

    I’ve got a mind
    that stacks lines,
    mountains high,
    metaphors rise—

    higher than Fuji,
    higher than Everest.

    You’ll never finish this climb,
    your mountains will never match mine.
    You could do this for the rest of your life—

    but you’ll never cross my ocean,
    you’ll never see my moon
    with your own eyes.
    You’ll never feel the pull of my tide—

    because your mind
    doesn’t work like mine.
    You’ll never see the beauty
    in my horizon line—

    the way the colors
    shift and shine
    with the change of time.

    You’ll never see the world like—
    I do,
    you’ll never see the world through—
    my view.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Just Human]
    Just Human is a reflective free verse poem about seeing people before borders, choosing empathy over division, and finding home in our shared humanity rather than on a map.

    [Monster Theology]
    What if the monsters under the bed weren’t monsters at all? Monster Theology explores difference, belonging, and the human tendency to fear what we don’t understand through a conversation with the creatures we’ve spent our lives imagining.

    [Before We Created The Labels]
    Ancient gods return to a fractured world shaped by borders, identities, and separation. “Before We Created the Labels” explores humanity’s divisions through mythic imagery, sacred ritual, and symbolic collapse—asking what remains when we learn to see one another beyond labels.

    [No You and I, Ony Us]
    A hopeful free verse poem about empathy, borders, and imagining a world where humanity matters more than division.

    [Two Americans]
    What does it mean to share a country, a language, and still feel completely different? Two Americans explores identity, culture, and the quiet disconnect between people who should feel the same—but don’t.

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

  • Just Human | A Poem About Shared Humanity Beyond Borders

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve never been particularly good at thinking in borders.

    When I look at a map, I see countries.

    When I look at people, I don’t.

    I’ve always found it easier to connect with someone’s story than with the place they happened to be born. A passport can tell you where someone came from, but it can’t tell you what keeps them awake at night, what they dream about, or what they’ve survived.

    That’s the part that interests me.

    This poem isn’t political.

    It’s personal.

    It’s an attempt to describe the way I’ve always experienced humanity—as something far larger than geography.

    I don’t believe compassion should stop at a border.

    I don’t believe kindness needs a nationality.

    Maybe that’s why so much of my writing wanders across oceans and continents, chasing people I’ll probably never meet, writing about places I’ve only visited through dreams, conversations, photographs, and stories.

    To me, humanity has always felt like one conversation happening in countless languages.

    Different histories.

    Different landscapes.

    The same heartbeat.

    That’s all this poem is trying to say.

    We’re all just human.

    — Rowan Evans

    The Earth at sunrise with diverse people connected across continents by glowing threads of light, symbolizing shared humanity.
    Before we’re anything else, we’re human.

    Just Human
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    With my eyes wide—
    I see the world.
    Not one corner.
    The whole globe,
    and I’ve got love for it.

    Every person,
    every soul—
    not divided by borders,
    not separated by flags,
    just human.

    Just here.

    Trying to make it
    through the same sunrise
    and the same storms.

    Not because I know them,
    but because I recognize them—
    the way a heartbeat
    recognizes another heartbeat
    anywhere on Earth.

    I don’t split the map
    into colors or countries.
    I don’t measure worth
    by lines drawn long before I was born.
    I just see people—
    living, trying, hoping.

    Maybe it’s the way I grew up
    feeling like I belonged everywhere
    and nowhere at once.

    Maybe it’s the way strangers
    always felt more familiar
    than the places I called home.

    Because home, to me,
    was never a location—

    it was a feeling,
    a recognition,
    a quiet knowing
    that we’re all carrying
    the same fragile humanity
    through different landscapes.

    And when I say
    I love the world,
    I mean I love its people—

    the way they rise,
    the way they break,
    the way they keep going
    even when the map
    forgets their names.

    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.

    [Raising Governments]
    A sharp, satirical poem that reframes global leadership as misbehaving children, Raising Governments blends humor with frustration to highlight the immaturity and contradictions often seen in power structures.

    [Government Time-Out]
    A direct and controlled follow-up to Raising Governments, this poem strips away humor to confront power with accountability—demanding reflection, responsibility, and change.

    [Calculating Profits (Ledger of Lives)]
    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.

    [Crash Landed]
    A reflective poem about feeling like an outsider in a world shaped by tribalism, selective compassion, and identity-driven thinking.

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

  • Where Music Becomes Weather | A Poem About Memory, Emotion, and Nostalgia

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve always had a difficult time describing what music actually does to me.

    People often say a song makes them feel happy, sad, nostalgic, or energized.

    That has never felt quite specific enough.

    Music feels physical.

    Some songs settle over me like fog.

    Some arrive like thunderstorms.

    Some feel like walking outside after rain when the air still smells different.

    And then there are the songs that somehow collapse time.

    They don’t simply remind me of childhood.

    They return me to it.

    Not through memory alone, but through sensation.

    The warmth of pavement beneath bare feet.

    The way summer evenings seemed endless.

    The strange certainty that tomorrow would always have enough time.

    That’s what fascinated me while writing this piece.

    Not the songs themselves, but the environments they create inside us.

    The weather of memory.

    The emotional climates we revisit every time a familiar melody begins.

    I’ve always believed that poetry and music are close relatives.

    One speaks through rhythm.

    The other through silence between the notes.

    Both have the remarkable ability to transport us somewhere we cannot physically return to.

    This poem is my attempt to describe that journey.

    Not through genres or artists.

    Through atmosphere.

    Because sometimes music doesn’t just soundtrack our lives.

    Sometimes it changes the forecast within them.

    — Rowan Evans

    A person wearing headphones stands beneath a sky shifting from storm clouds to warm sunlight, symbolizing how music changes emotions and memories.
    Some songs don’t just play. They change the weather inside us.

    Where Music Becomes Weather
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I put my headphones on,
    hit the button—
    noise cancelling.
    Then I let the music play,
    let it lead my emotions
    whatever which way.

    I drift through different soundscapes—
    crossing borders in sound,
    watching emotion mix with ink
    like paint on the canvas.

    Certain songs
    feel like humidity.
    They put a heavy feeling
    in your chest,
    it almost makes it hard
    to catch your breath.

    Other songs
    feel like clouds.
    The way they hold me
    in soft hands.
    And I feel safe,
    because they hold me close
    but in motion—
    like a slow dance.

    But then
    there are those songs—
    the ones that feel
    like warm concrete
    on bare feet.
    Like time travel,
    I’m back in my childhood.

    Back when summer felt endless,
    and every day was measured
    by the position of the sun.

    Before I knew what nostalgia was—
    only that certain songs
    felt familiar before I’d ever heard them.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [A Heart That Echoes in Another Language]
    A poetic journey through music across Japan, Korea, China, and the Philippines, exploring how sound becomes identity, memory, and emotional geography.

    [Sound as a Vessel]
    “Sound as a Vessel” is a free verse poem about music as emotional architecture, exploring how international artists and soundscapes shaped identity, creativity, memory, and poetic voice.

    [The Music Holds Me Upright]
    A reflective free verse poem about using music, writing, and rhythm to navigate anxiety, depression, and emotional overwhelm.

    [Global Takeover]
    What if home isn’t a place—but something you build from the music you love? Global Takeover blends sound, culture, and identity into one borderless space.

    [I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise]
    Love has never come easily to me. This poem explores the fear, vulnerability, and quiet courage required to stay emotionally present when connection begins to matter deeply. “I’ll Be There to See Your Sunrise” is about choosing love despite the risk of heartbreak—and promising to remain long enough to witness someone fully.

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

  • Before My Feet Touch the Floor | A Poem About Dreams, Memory & Identity

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve written about dreams for years.

    Not because I think they predict the future. Not because I think they’re magical.

    Because they feel real.

    Real enough that sometimes waking up feels stranger than the dream itself.

    I don’t think people talk enough about that moment between sleeping and waking—the brief period where both realities still exist at the same time.

    The dream is fading.

    The room is returning.

    And for a few seconds, you’re caught between them.

    That’s where this poem lives.

    I’ve had dreams that felt so vivid, so emotionally complete, that waking up felt like losing something. Not a person. Not a place. A version of myself.

    A self that existed somewhere else.

    The older I get, the more fascinated I become by that feeling.

    Why do some dreams linger for hours while entire days disappear from memory?

    Why do imaginary places sometimes feel more familiar than real ones?

    Why does waking occasionally feel like arriving somewhere instead of returning?

    This piece doesn’t try to answer those questions.

    It simply sits with them.

    Because there are mornings when the first thing I feel isn’t relief that the dream is over.

    It’s grief that it ended.

    And I suspect I’m not the only one.

    — Rowan Evans

    A woman sits on the edge of her bed between waking and dreaming as a surreal dream-world fades around her.
    Some mornings feel less like waking up and more like saying goodbye to a life that only existed while you were asleep.

    Before My Feet Touch the Floor
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Dreams—
    a common topic
    in my poetry.

    It’s because
    they don’t feel fake to me.
    They feel like memories.

    Do know what it’s like
    to wake up confused—
    because you’re in your own room?

    How do you live—
    when your dreams are more alive
    than your waking life?

    It’s as if the person I was
    a moment ago
    is still out there,
    waiting for me
    to return.

    So I lie there,
    trying to remember
    which version of me
    is the imposter—
    the one who wakes,
    or the one who wanders.

    Sometimes I think
    the dream‑me
    is the one who remembers,
    and I’m the one
    who forgets.

    Because if I feel more alive
    in the places I can’t stay,
    what does that make
    the life I return to?

    There’s a mourning
    no one talks about—
    the kind that happens
    before your feet
    touch the floor.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [The Streets I Walk When I Sleep]
    “The Streets I Walk When I Sleep” is a deeply intimate free verse poem about recurring dreams, emotional connection, longing across distance, and the strange feeling of remembering places and moments that have never happened in waking life.

    [Memories From a Life Yet to Come]
    Some dreams feel less like fantasy and more like memory. “Memories From a Life Yet to Come” is a reflective free verse poem about longing, displacement, emotional alignment, and the strange comfort of recognizing yourself more clearly in dreams than in waking life.

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