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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: rhyme

  • Confession or Cap? | A Sharp, Humorous Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve always had a complicated relationship with the voice that comes through my pen.

    Sometimes it tells the truth. Sometimes it exaggerates. Sometimes it gets a little too comfortable talking shit.

    And sometimes I genuinely can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

    So before you read this one, there’s really only one question worth asking:

    Is it confession—or cap?

    — Rowan Evans

    A poet writing at a desk while a shadowy version of themselves and flames rise from the pages.
    Sometimes the pen tells the truth. Sometimes it talks shit. Sometimes it does both.

    Confession or Cap?
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Ask anyone and they’ll tell you—
    I’m nice and that’s true,
    but my pen can be mean
    when it speaks—
    so when I write,
    you’ve gotta ask—
    is it confession—

    or am I just talking
    my shit again?

    I’ve dissed other poets before—
    said they were boring, put me to sleep
    and called them all Watson—
    because their rhymes were elementary.
    So when you say I’m great?

    No shit, Sherlock.

    I’ve written the copies of copies,
    and the copies that copied that—

    inspired less by poets and more by rap—

    that’s why when my pen gets hot,
    I don’t know how to stop—
    so I pen fire and burn my hands, (ouch!)
    what am I sayin’? Everything I drop—

    Flames.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Fine, Fire It Is]
    A playful poem about abandoning an ice metaphor, getting carried away with fire, and discovering that sometimes the best description of a poet’s pen is something that refuses to cool down.

    [Exhibit A]
    A quick-witted, unapologetically playful poem about writing fast, crossing lines, roasting the competition, and letting rhythm do the talking.

    [Why So Serious?]
    A playful, chaotic poem packed with pop-culture references, superhero imagery, Disney characters, wordplay, and the kind of ridiculous puns that make the poet wonder why they were ever given a pen.

    [Welcome to the Hexverse]
    Step into the Hexverse—a poetic world where mythmaking, humor, rage, creativity, and confession collide, and darkness becomes something that can be reshaped into art.

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

  • Exhibit A (The Evidence) | Playful Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is me doing what I do best: writing too fast, joking too much, and letting the pen cross whatever line happens to be in the way.

    It’s cocky. It’s playful. It knows exactly how ridiculous it is.

    So consider this less of a confession and more of an exhibit.

    The evidence is right there on the page.

    — Rowan Evans

    A handwritten poetry manuscript arranged like evidence beneath a spotlight with an “Exhibit A” card and scattered pages.
    Exhibit A: The evidence speaks for itself.

    Exhibit A (The Evidence)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I write so quick
    and joke a bit.
    I’m quick-witted—
    enough to roast a bitch.
    Down to earth,
    enough to toast a bitch.
    I’m on a roll,
    like butter is—
    spread thin
    across genres,
    but still
    the cadence hits—
    because that’s
    where the rhythm lives.

    You think I’m joking—

    but I really write like this,
    take this piece—
    it’s the evidence.
    Exhibit A on a list to—
    these other poets
    don’t exist to me.

    When I read their work—

    it’s straight Zs,
    it puts me to sleep.

    My mind is too quick,
    and I don’t know
    where the line is—
    I’m always crossing it.
    That’s what gets me
    in trouble, yeah—
    so I just double-down.

    I’m already in trouble,
    so why stop now?

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Welcome to the Hexverse]
    Step into the Hexverse—a poetic world where mythmaking, humor, rage, creativity, and confession collide, and darkness becomes something that can be reshaped into art.

    [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.

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

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

  • Give Me (I’ll Give) | A Playful Confidence Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some poems ask for your attention.

    This one asks for a challenge.

    Give me something to work with, and I’ll turn it into a line. A joke. A rhyme. A little trouble.

    That’s the game.

    — Rowan Evans

    A fountain pen and open notebook surrounded by surreal images of a microphone, ghost, lyric sheet, and toast.
    Give me something to work with. I’ll give you a poem.

    Give Me (I’ll Give)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Give me a beat,
    I’ll give you a bar.
    Give me a graveyard,
    I’ll give you a ghost.
    Give me a lyric,
    I’ll give you a joke.
    Give me a drink,
    I’ll give you a toast.

    You don’t have to say it—
    I know, I write better than most.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Nobody² (No Body)]
    A minimalist poem playing with the double meaning of “nobody”—exploring loneliness, isolation, absence, and the feeling of becoming a ghost within your own life.

    [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]

  • B.S.T.F.U. | A Battle-Poetry Flex by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    B.S.T.F.U. is me flexing.

    There isn’t a real target hiding behind this poem, no specific person I’m trying to call out, and no secret literary feud happening behind the scenes. I wrote this because sometimes I like to take the battle-poet side of my voice out for a walk and see what it can do.

    This piece is deliberately over-the-top. It’s swagger, insults, wordplay, internal rhyme, punchlines, and a little bit of absurdity thrown into the blender. The goal wasn’t to make a serious accusation—it was to practice the mechanics of verbal combat while having fun with the language.

    And honestly, that’s part of why I love writing: sometimes I want to write something vulnerable, sometimes I want to build mythology, sometimes I want to make conspiracy theories about fish, and sometimes I just want to look at the imaginary competition and say:

    Where are you on the ladder?

    Below me.

    It’s not that serious.

    But the pen game?

    That part is serious.

    — Rowan Evans

    A confident poet stands in a dark battle-poetry arena holding a fountain pen beside a towering ladder symbolizing literary skill.
    No target. No feud. Just a poet flexing the pen and climbing the imaginary ladder.

    B.S.T.F.U.
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Bitch, shut the fuck up—
    what’chu talkin’ about?

    Don’t think I haven’t heard—
    how you’re runnin’ your mouth.

    You thought ’cause I don’t talk a lot,
    I was open season, you should be scared—
    let me give you a reason, I’m a big dog—
    all bite, no bark and a license to write still.

    I write with precision, I write kills—

    you’re not a writer,
    you’re the one who steals—

    plagiarizing those with skill.

    It’s stolen lines
    and stolen rhymes—
    the only thing keeping you
    holding on to borrowed time—

    it’s not yours—

    it’s whoever writes for you.

    It’s me and it’s them—
    it’s the wielders of the pen.
    Those with skill,
    with lines that kill
    and lines that heal—

    we know—

    you don’t write, bitch—
    be so for real.

    You don’t know what a metaphor is—

    and a stanza?
    You hear that and you’re like—
    isn’t his first name Tony?

    Bitch, you’re a phony…

    if you were
    to try and write—
    baloney.

    All that to ask—

    when it comes
    to writing—
    where are you
    on the ladder?

    Below me.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Across the Page-cific]
    A playful, autobiographical journey through the strange places poetry can take me—from sandwich heartbreak and pasta diss poems to gothic monsters, mythology, ravens, ghosts, and storms across the page. Beneath the absurdity is something deeply personal: the realization that writing gave me a way to rebuild myself, piece by piece.

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