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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: resilience

  • Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes) – A Poem About Turning Pain Into Power

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems are confessions.
    Some are exorcisms.

    This one is alchemy.

    Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes) came from that familiar edge—when the weight presses in, when the mind contracts, when the darkness feels like it might finally win. But instead of letting it consume me, I let it become something. I let it turn into ink.

    This poem is about that moment of reclamation.
    About taking what hurts and making it mine.
    About refusing to be only what the darkness names me.

    If you’ve ever felt yourself folding inward—this is for you.
    If you’ve ever made art out of survival—this is yours too.

    A shadowed poet with glowing eyes as black ink pours from their hands, transforming into swirling symbols of power in a dark, gothic setting.
    Turning darkness into language. Pain into power. Ink into alchemy.

    Alchemist of Ink (All Sixes)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I am all sixes when its needed,
    this darkness,
    your hatred feeds it.

    I can feel it—
    crawling up my spine,
    that creeping feeling.
    It twists around my mind,
    contracting.

    I can feel it squeeze,
    as I fall to knees.

    My eyes flicker and flash,
    fade to black—
    as you see
    my face distort.
    Twisted reflection.
    Personified depression.

    Can you see—
    as I begin to bleed ink?
    It pours from me,
    covering fingers,
    hands and arms.

    It twists,
    never relents.

    …

    I’m a motherfucking
    alchemist,
    the way I take my pain
    and change it.
    I’ll write like hell,
    to subtly rearrange it.

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

  • Between Walls and Whispers (Ghost and Witness) – Poetry by Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    Sometimes, the quiet isn’t empty. 
    Sometimes, it carries you, like a pulse behind the walls. 
    Here, in the hush, I watch. 
    Here, in the stillness, I breathe. 
    Here, I am seen, even when no else is. 
     
    — Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ

    Ethereal figure standing in a dim room, light streaming through cracks, evoking quiet and introspection.
    “Surrounded in silence, both ghost and witness.” – Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ

    Between Walls and Whispers (Ghost and Witness)
    Pᵒᵉᵗʳʸ bʸ Rᵒᵒ ᵗʰᵉ Pᵒᵉᵗ

    Sometimes, I find myself 
    surrounded in silence— 
    not absence, 
    but a quiet hum behind the walls. 
    The room feels full, 
    but nobody’s really there, 
    and I am both ghost 
    and witness— 
     
    drifting, endless, 
    caught in this forced flow 
    of normalcy. 
     
    A weirdo, 
    misfit, outcast— 
    purposeful outsider, 
    rejector of the machine. 
     
    I don’t want to be another cog. 
    Sometimes, I long for silence— 
    not the absence, 
    but that gentle presence, 
    a pulse softer 
    than the endless hum. 
     
    And in that silence, I breathe. 
    I am seen, 
    I am held, 
    not by voices or eyes, 
    but by the quiet 
    that understands 
    what the hum 
    cannot touch.

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

  • Since I Was Thirteen (Fluent in Survival) – Rowan Evans Poetry

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is not about wanting to die.
    It is about learning how to survive long before learning how to live.

    A shadowed figure in a dimly lit room, reflecting in solitude, surrounded by deep shadows and soft light, evoking introspection and survival.
    Reflecting on survival, solitude, and the quiet strength found in shadows.

    Since I Was Thirteen (Fluent in Survival)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I feel like I’m lost,
    I’m wandering.
    Twisted thoughts,
    I’m pondering.

    My demise
    in a life I despise.
    It’s not that I want to die—
    I’m just tired
    of trying to survive.

    I want to be happy.
    I’m alive.

    But my head
    is so full of dread—
    every morning
    a negotiation
    just to get out of bed.

    Body feels heavy,
    limbs lagging—
    everything moves
    in slow-motion.

    Slipping into shadows—
    going home.
    The light has never felt like mine.
    I was born in the shadows,
    raised in the shade.
    Darkness has been
    my mindscape—
    since I was thirteen.

    I learned early
    how to make myself small—
    how to soften my footsteps
    inside my own head.

    I memorized the weight of silence,
    learned which thoughts were safe to keep
    and which ones
    needed to stay buried.

    Survival became a second language,
    spoken fluently,
    even when no one was listening.

    I say I’m alive
    like it’s a defense—
    like survival
    should be enough.

    But living
    feels like something other people do
    without rehearsing it first.

    Closing Note

    I wrote this for anyone who learned survival before they learned safety.
    For those who are still here, even when “alive” feels like a negotiation.
    You are not failing — you are fluent in something the world never taught gently.

    For more poetry, check out the archives: [The Library of Ashes]

  • Two Days: A Poem on Chaos, Resilience, and Care by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Life can change in a heartbeat. I wrote this piece over the last couple of days because the world reminded me how fragile and urgent everything can feel—how fast a life, a home, a moment can turn to smoke.

    Even in the chaos, even when fear and exhaustion weigh heavy, there’s still presence. There’s still breath. There’s still love.

    This poem is for those people who occupy your heart even when everything else seems to collapse. For the ones you carry in your thoughts, your prayers, your wishes for safety and light. For my muse, her sister, and her family—I hope you feel the strength of care here, even across the distance, even across the noise of the world.

    Sometimes, being present is enough. Sometimes, staying steady, keeping your heart open, and wishing well for those you love is all that matters.

    Two people sitting in a car at night, watching firefighters at a nearby apartment with smoke and emergency lights surrounding the scene.
    Watching chaos unfold, yet finding calm in presence, breath, and love.

    Two Days
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Last-minute decision—
    I moved.

    My brother called.
    Tuesday.
    “Want to move on Thursday?”
    “Okay.”
    I packed my life in a day,
    we made good time,
    settled into the new place—
    first night soft, quiet, simple.

    Then last night—
    one day in—
    the world cracked open.

    Sparks.
    Flames.
    A fist pounding the door.
    “Fire! Get out!”
    And suddenly everything I own
    felt like smoke.

    We stood outside for hours,
    feet aching—hearts racing,
    watching firefighters pour in and out,
    chasing the glow behind thin walls.
    Their boots thundered.
    Their voices echoed.
    I just stood there,
    trying to steady my breath,
    thinking how fast a life can turn to smoke.

    Two days.
    Two moves.
    One body carrying
    exhaustion and adrenaline
    in the same heartbeat.

    But I’m still here.
    The walls are still standing.
    And maybe…
    that’s enough for tonight.

    And even in all that chaos,
    you never left my mind.
    I carried thoughts of you,
    your family,
    and the prayers I’ve whispered
    for days.

    If you are interested in more of my poetry, you can find it here: The Library of Ashes

  • Exhibit of Survival – Reflection on Resilience and Empathy by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece reflects on the quiet strength it takes to remain soft in a world that often tries to harden you. It’s a personal reflection on resilience, empathy, and the enduring capacity to love, even in the face of doubt and adversity.

    This post marks my 83rd consecutive day of sharing on the blog,   I have not missed a day since August 8th… During this time, I have tried to push myself to be a little more open. A little more honest. Even when it’s hard, even when I just want to be closed off from the world…

    Figure sitting on the floor surrounded by pinned papers and threads, illuminated by soft light, representing reflection, resilience, and quiet strength.
    Caught in the threads of life — resilience and reflection hold them in place.

    Exhibit of Survival
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Pins.
    They hold me in place.
    As the glass
    lowers over my face.
    Framed.
    In a frame. On display.
    Like a dead butterfly.

    I have had people in my life who pretended to be on my side—who pretended to care—when really, they just wanted front-row seats to my struggles. They wanted to watch as I unraveled, whispering doubts to freeze me in place, to preserve the ache. To keep me from moving forward. And yet, I still pushed. I still tried.

    Threads.
    Tied to limbs.
    Marionette.
    Puppet on strings.
    They’ve got control of me.
    Free? Not really.

    Those same people tried to talk me out of anything I wanted to do—anything that could bring me closer to the life I wanted. “Why do you want to leave America?” they’d ask. But it’s not my home; it’s just the place I was born. The place I was raised. I’ve never felt like I belong here. Not once.

    Everything holds me back—my brain looping their doubts, my own depression and anxiety echoing them back to me. It’s a war on all fronts. And still, I stand.

    My thoughts.
    They flutter and fade
    in this liminal space.
    It’s pain—
    just to be alive.
    It’s a wonder.
    A miracle.
    How have I survived?

    Resilience. And reminders from the few who truly see me, who truly believe in me. Without them, I might have given up long ago. But because of them, I’ve kept my empathy alive. I’ve refused apathy. I’ve stayed soft. I’ve kept my heart open and given love freely.

    How?
    How have I
    made it to thirty-five?
    Every day I wake up.
    Surprised.

    That surprise isn’t mine anymore. It’s the echo of others’ doubts—ones I no longer answer.

  • Not a Whisper – A Poetic Declaration of Presence and Defiance | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Not a Whisper is a declaration of presence, defiance, and the choice to live loudly even in the face of despair. It is a celebration of vulnerability as strength, and a reminder that leaving a mark on the world—through words, actions, or simply by existing—is a radical act of courage.

    This piece is written for anyone who has ever felt like fading into silence. It is a call to blaze, to roar, and to claim your space unapologetically. Let it be a lantern in the dark, a spark for the weary, and a testament that even in our final moments, we can leave brilliance behind.

    Figure standing at the edge of a cliff at twilight, surrounded by intertwining shadows and light, symbolizing defiance and inner strength.
    “Not a whisper, but a roar—standing fearless at the edge of darkness and light.”

    Not a Whisper
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    For those who refuse to fade silently.

    In the pastel twilight where shadows entwine,
    I stand at the edge, where darkness and light align.
    Not with a whisper shall I slip from this realm,
    But with a scream, a bang—I take the helm.

    I want my exit to echo, a thunderous sound,
    A ripple of strength in the silence profound.
    With each word I write, may my spirit take flight,
    Leaving behind traces of shimmering light.

    For life is a canvas, painted in hues
    Of laughter and heartache, the joy and the blues.
    I won’t fade like the dusk, soft and subdued,
    But blaze like a comet, fierce and imbued.

    I’ll cast off the shadows that darken the skies,
    With vibrant explosions that shatter the lies.
    In the depths of despair, I wield my sharp pen
    To carve out a legacy that rises again.

    A testament bold, in the ink of my tears,
    A symphony sung through the echo of years.
    I forge in the fire my soul’s purest art,
    Uplifting the weary, igniting the heart.

    When I’m gone, let my laughter resound in the air,
    Like a wild, raging storm—untamed, rare.
    May my spirit linger, a beacon of grace,
    Shining through darkness, time’s cold embrace.

    I seek not to vanish, a ghost in the night,
    But to burst forth with brilliance, a brilliant delight.
    For in vulnerability, true power is found,
    In lifting each other, our spirits unbound.

    So, let me depart not in silence or fear,
    But in vibrant defiance, my purpose made clear.
    With a scream that ignites and a bang that reverberates,
    I leave behind light, as my heart resonates.

    For when shadows encroach and the world feels unfair,
    May my words be the lanterns, lighting the air.
    Not a whisper, but a roar, as I take my last breath,
    A legacy blooming, transcending even death.

    For more of my poetry, visit The Library of Ashes.

  • For the Youth: A Poetic Call to Rise, Shine, and Ignite

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    For the Youth is a whisper to every young heart, everywhere—an urging to rise, to shine, to ignite your own fire. Across continents and cultures, no matter where you stand, your voice is a spark, your truth a flame. May this poem remind you that even in the shadows, you are the light, the dreamers, the revolution in motion.

    Young people standing on hilltops at sunrise, arms raised, bathed in warm light, symbolizing hope and empowerment.
    Rise, shine, ignite—the youth hold the power to light the world.

    For the Youth
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    To the youth of the world, hear this whispering call,
    You are the dawn breaking, the rise after the fall.
    Embrace your truth, let it shimmer, let it shine,
    Rise, shine, ignite—your spirit divine.

    Stand tall like mountains, unyielding and grand,
    Let your voices ring out, a wild, fierce band.
    Be loud, be proud, let your colors unfurl,
    Rise, shine, ignite—the dreamers of the world.

    Your light is a beacon in shadows so stark,
    A flame in the darkness, igniting the spark.
    Don’t let whispers of doubt cast their pall,
    Rise, shine, ignite—you will not fall.

    In gardens of chaos, you bloom and you fight,
    Petals of courage dispelling the night.
    See your worth, young hearts, let it echo and soar,
    Rise, shine, ignite—the poets, and more.

    Know there’s room for growth, like trees reaching high,
    Roots deep in the earth, branches in the sky.
    Your journey is sacred, each step is your song,
    Rise, shine, ignite—you’ve always belonged.

    So rise from the ashes, let your dreams take flight,
    Illuminate the world with your radiant light.
    You are the change, the revolution’s embrace,
    Rise, shine, ignite—a fearless face.

    To the youth of the world, this message I send:
    Your hearts are the compass, your voices the trend.
    Embrace your own truth, let it blaze and alight,
    Rise, shine, ignite—turn darkness to light.

    If you are interested in reading more of my work, you can find the full archive in The Library of Ashes.

  • The Hopeless Romantic Wears Armor | Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is a tribute to the fierce resilience of love—the kind that’s messy, painful, and profoundly real. It honors the hopeless romantics who bear their scars like armor, who choose presence over perfection, and who dare to keep their hearts bare in a world that often demands they harden. This is for anyone who has ever loved with trembling hands and steady hope.

    A lone figure stands in a storm wearing armor made of roses and ink-stained paper, with a glowing heart visible beneath.
    The Hopeless Romantic Wears Armor — a poetic embrace of love’s enduring presence beneath vulnerability.

    The Hopeless Romantic Wears Armor
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been told—
    “You must be a romantic,”
    like it was something delicate,
    a petal too soft for stormy weather.
    But they don’t see the thorns
    I’ve stitched into my smile,
    the way I carry hope
    like a blade in my boot.

    They mistake softness for surrender,
    but I have loved through hurricanes—
    hands trembling,
    heart steady,
    singing lullabies to ghosts
    who only ever came to haunt.

    I’ve written poems to silence,
    and bled ink for people
    who didn’t know what it meant
    to be cherished
    without condition.

    I’ve fallen for echoes,
    mistaken attention for affection,
    believed in almosts
    like they were promises.

    But still—
    I light candles in empty rooms,
    not because I expect someone to walk in,
    but because love
    is a ritual I perform
    even when I’m the only one watching.

    I romanticize survival
    because I know the cost
    of staying soft
    in a world that sharpens everything it touches.

    And yes,
    I’m a hopeless romantic—
    not because I believe in fairy tales,
    but because I believe
    that even cracked hearts
    can bloom again.

    I believe in letters left on pillows,
    in forehead kisses before panic sets in,
    in waiting through silence
    without letting it change me.

    Call it foolish,
    but I will always choose the ache of loving
    over the emptiness of apathy.

    I don’t need love to be easy—
    I just need it to be real.

    So if I love you,
    know this:

    I will not run when the storms come.
    I will hold your hand through the wreckage
    and whisper,
    “This is not the end.”

    Because love, to me,
    has never been about perfection—
    it’s about presence.

    And I will be present.
    Even when it hurts.
    Even when it scares me.
    Even when it means
    standing alone
    with my armor made of poetry,
    and my heart still bare beneath it.

    Closing Note

    In the end, maybe that’s what it means to be a hopeless romantic:
    To carry tenderness like armor, to keep loving even when it hurts,
    and to trust that even the most wounded hearts can still bloom green in the ruins.

    Because it does hurt. And sometimes it feels foolish.
    But I’d rather ache from loving too deeply than be left untouched by apathy.

    Read Next (Suggestions)

    [Splinter Gospel] — A Poem of Fracture & Unrepentant Softness
    [Cry to the Quiet: Sacred Desperation] — A Neo-Gothic Confessional Poem
    [Luminescence & Shadow: A Forbidden Litany] — A Neo-Gothic Confessional Narrative Poem
    [The Bite & Eternal Thirst] — Dark Love, Shadowed Offering & Crimson Hunger

    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’…

  • The Gospel of Softness I: Modern Gothic Poetry for Women of All Kinds

    Rowan Evans

    ☽ Poetry by Rowan Evans ☾
    Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism

    A woman, a witch, a siren. The Luminous Heretic with the moon shining behind her, candles, flames. Myth, moonlight and stardust. "Creed of the Luminous Heretic" by trans poet Rowan Evans overlayed.
    I was born in the dark, forged jn the fire—
    You are not too much.
    You are the exact amount of holy
    this world was never ready for.

    A Poem for All Women Who’ve Been Told They’re “Too Much”

    This poem is for every woman—trans, cis, and beyond—who has ever been told she was too much. Too loud. Too soft. Too angry. Too gentle. Too queer. Too bold. Too broken. It’s a reclamation of sacred femininity across the binary and beyond it.

    Born from shadows and fire, this piece is a poetic anthem of softness, rage, survival, and sovereignty.
    If you’ve ever bled and bloomed at the same time—
    This is for you.

    ❖ We Were the Fire Before the Flame
    A Poem for All Women Who’ve Been Told They’re “Too Much”
    ☽ Poetry by Rowan Evans ☾

    We were born in the dark—
    not broken, but blooming,
    not soft, but sacred.

    In the marrow of midnight,
    we carved altars out of silence
    and lit them with our names.
    We bled into the soil
    and it grew wildflowers with teeth.

    They called us witch
    when we spoke with clarity,
    whore when we craved without shame,
    sirens when we sang the truth
    too loudly for their liking.

    But we remember—
    how we burned,
    how we danced,
    how we stitched our souls
    from ribbons and ruin.

    Every scar is a scripture.
    Every bruise is a baptism.
    Every ache is a cathedral
    that houses our fury,
    our softness,
    our will to rise again
    with the elegance of thunder.

    We are not porcelain.
    We are obsidian:
    kissed by shadow,
    cut from starfall,
    eternal and unyielding.

    Our femininity is not a cage,
    it’s a crown—
    woven from thorns, yes,
    but also from moonlight and myth.

    To the daughters of storm
    and the sisters of silence—
    You are seen.
    You are sovereign.
    You are the poem,
    not the apology.

    You are not too much.
    You are the exact amount of holy
    this world was never ready for.

    If this poem resonated with you, share it with a sister, a daughter, a mother, a friend, a lover, or your younger self. Let her know:
    She is sacred. She is sovereign. She is not alone.

    The Gospel of Softness II – The Fire That Softened Me
    The Gospel of Softness III – Thirteen Psalms for the Tender-Hearted

  • “To the Ones Who Feel Like Ghosts” — A Poignant Poem on Healing, Hope, and Becoming

    Rowan Evans
    Cover image for the poem ‘To the Ones Who Feel Like Ghosts’ by Shiann. A silhouette of a person in a dark cloak stands against a glowing ocean backdrop, surrounded by soft light. The title and subtitle are written above in gothic font, with the name 'Shiann' across the figure and 'Rowan Evans' credited in the corner.
    For the souls who are still here, even when it hurts.

    🕯️ Featured Guest Poem
    ✨ For the souls who are still here, even when it hurts.

    Some poems arrive like lifelines—woven from truth, pain, grace, and the quiet strength of survival. They don’t offer easy answers, but they do offer space. Space to feel. To breathe. To be reminded that healing is messy, nonlinear, and still… deeply sacred.

    “To the Ones Who Feel Like Ghosts” by Shiann is exactly that kind of poem.

    “I wrote it with the intention to give some kind of guidance, space and hope,” Shiann said. “Because being someone who suffers from mental health issues and trauma, I know how easy it is to get lost when trying to heal. It’s hard, and it can feel like there’s a veil covering the eyes of the soul. But healing doesn’t always have to be painful—it just needs to be honest. And when it’s honest, it’s done with grace.”

    This poem is a sanctuary for anyone who’s ever wondered if they’re too far gone to be found again.
    It’s a reminder that even in the dark, even when we feel like ghosts in our own lives—
    we are still becoming.

    I am deeply honored to feature this as the first-ever guest poem on my blog.
    Let it meet you wherever you are. Let it be a soft place to land.

    “To the Ones Who Feel Like Ghosts”
    for the souls who are still here, even when it hurts

    If you’re reading this with tired eyes,
    barely holding on,
    wondering if the road even leads anywhere—
    this is for you.

    For the ones who feel like life keeps happening
    to them
    instead of with them.
    For the ones who keep giving love
    and getting silence in return.
    For the ones who wake up
    and already feel behind.

    You are not broken.
    You are becoming.

    I know it feels like you’re crumbling.
    Like everything you touch slips through your fingers
    and every breath tastes like defeat.
    But listen closely:

    Some things fall apart
    because they were never meant to hold your becoming.
    You were not made to stay small
    just to make others comfortable.
    You were not made to disappear
    just to survive.

    Your mess does not cancel your magic.
    Your doubt does not erase your worth.
    You can feel lost
    and still be on your path.

    You don’t need to have it all figured out.
    You don’t need to feel good all the time.
    You don’t even need to know where you’re going.
    You just need to keep going.

    Because there is a version of you waiting—
    not perfect, not fixed—
    but free.
    Free from shame.
    Free from the lie that healing must be fast or pretty.
    Free to speak gently to the parts of yourself
    that never heard a kind word.

    So take your time.
    Cry if you need to.
    Start over as many times as it takes.

    Just don’t stop being you.
    Even if you don’t know who that is yet.

    There is peace here,
    not in perfection—
    but in presence.
    In letting yourself exist
    exactly as you are.

    So breathe.
    Rest.
    Begin again.

    You’re not alone.
    And you’re not lost.
    You’re just on your way home.

    🇺🇸 United States

    988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline – Call or text 988
    https://988lifeline.org
    Free, 24/7 support for emotional distress and mental health crises.

    Crisis Text Line – Text HOME to 741741
    https://www.crisistextline.org

    —

    🇬🇧 United Kingdom

    Samaritans – Call 116 123 (free, 24/7)
    https://www.samaritans.org

    —

    🇦🇺 Australia

    Lifeline Australia – Call 13 11 14
    https://www.lifeline.org.au

    Kids Helpline (ages 5–25) – Call 1800 55 1800
    https://www.kidshelpline.com.au

    —

    🇨🇦 Canada

    Talk Suicide Canada – Call 1-833-456-4566 or text 45645
    https://talksuicide.ca

    —

    🇵🇭 Philippines

    Hopeline Philippines
    Call: 0917 558 4673, (02) 8804 4673, or 2919 (toll-free for Globe & TM)
    https://www.hopelineph.com

    —

    🌍 Global

    Befrienders Worldwide – Emotional support in 30+ countries
    https://www.befrienders.org

    Suicide Prevention Wiki (International Hotline Directory)
    https://suicidestop.com/call_a_hotline.html

    If this poem spoke to you, know you’re not alone on your journey. Healing is not a race or a destination, but a series of moments where grace meets courage. May Shiann’s words remind you to breathe, to rest, and to keep moving forward—one step, one breath, one honest moment at a time.

    Thank you for sharing this space with us.

    With respect and gratitude,
    — Rowan Evans
    The Luminous Heretic

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