Author’s Note

This poem is my fire, my confession, my offering. It is every line I’ve written, every night spent wrestling with words, every verse that burned and bled before anyone else could see it. It is a declaration of persistence, obsession, and devotion to the craft. I wrote it because sometimes the only way to honor your journey is to shout it into the void—and trust the void will answer.

Invocation

I call forth the ghosts of every poem I’ve ever written.
I summon the echoes of applause, silence, and doubt alike.
Witness this fire. Bear it with me.

The Million Shitty Poems: A Declaration
Poetry by Rowan Evans

What, you think I just got lucky,
that these verses wrote themselves without blood?
Bitch, I’ve been working at this
since I was thirteen—
scribbling a million shitty poems
to only family and friends,
watching polite nods echo like empty chapels.

I have knelt before typewriters like altars,
burned ink in confession,
let syllables carve bruises into my own chest.
Every line was a torch,
every stanza a spell,
every failed rhyme a prayer
to ghosts who whispered, write harder.

What kind of fool would diss a poet
who has clawed through shadows,
kissed the void awake,
built temples of ink in forgotten rooms?
I’d hate to be that person
when my verses curl in your children’s lips,
a flicker of chaos
you never imagined could exist outside my chest.

I have sung my confessions
to mirrors that never flinch,
to candle flames that shiver in awe,
to the hollow hum of disbelief
that echoes louder than applause.
I have bled ink,
let my pulse tattoo the page,
and watched the verses rise like ash from a funeral pyre.

I have shared secrets
too tender for eyes unprepared,
truths too sharp for gentle hands,
and laughter—oh, how laughter came—
from the mouths of friends who feared nothing
but dared to call it good enough.

And now you wonder,
Was it luck?
No.
Luck is the crutch of the lazy.
I have forged these words
from every heartbreak,
every bruise,
every sleepless night spent
listening to ghosts argue in my chest.

I have performed my confessions
in halls empty except for my own shadow,
to rooms that whispered,
“Perhaps someday, someone will understand.”
I have bled onto pages until ink became flame,
and the flame became me—
untamed, unrepentant, unbroken.

Now, this poem is over.
I fold my pen like a ritual knife,
leaving the altar,
with a smirk at the fools who doubted.

Signed,
Rowan Evans

Benediction

May all who read these words feel the pulse of devotion, the fire of persistence, and the thrill of unrepentant truth.
May your own words rise from shadow to flame.
And may your poems, messy or perfect, always be heard.