This piece came from a lifelong feeling of distance – not just from place, but from the way people divide themselves.
It isn’t anti-country. It isn’t anti-culture. It’s anti-separation.
I’ve never understood how imaginary lines on maps can outweigh shared humanity. This poem is me saying plainly what I’ve felt for years: we are far more alike than we are different, and the borders we defend so fiercely don’t exist in our blood or our bones.
This isn’t rebellion for the sake of rebellion. It’s clarity.
— Rowan Evans
The border isn’t the edge of the world. It’s the edge of perception.
Imaginary Lines Poetry by Rowan Evans
I don’t feel
like I’m from here,
like I come from out
beyond the stars—
somewhere far,
lightyears beyond mars.
I watch and observe,
as humans continue
to act absurd.
It’s like they
don’t know how
to act.
Kind of like
they don’t know how
to treat each other.
Focused on imaginary lines,
barriers and borders.
With a—
if you’re not like me,
you’re the enemy
mentality.
When you bleed
it all looks the same.
Human is human.
The rest is costume.
No passport in the bloodstream.
No nation in the bone.
This piece isn’t about hating a place. It’s about refusing to perform pride I don’t feel.
For most of my life, I’ve carried a quiet disconnect—and what’s always surprised me isn’t the feeling itself, but how personal other people take it. As if my lack of attachment is an accusation.
It isn’t.
It’s just honesty.
Be Proud is about boundaries. About recognizing that someone else’s love for something doesn’t require my imitation. And that some feelings run too deep to be argued out of existence.
— Rowan Evans
You can love it. I just don’t.
Be Proud Poetry by Rowan Evans
It’s always been funny to me,
the way people argue with me.
Why does my disconnect
affect you so badly?
Why do you take
my wanting to leave,
so personal?
If you’re proud,
be proud—
I don’t care,
honestly.
You’re wasting your breath,
you’re wasting your time—
because, you’re never going to
change my mind.
I’ve been like this
for most of my life,
so tell me—
do you really think
your opinion will
change something
so marrow deep?
Look, you love America—
I get it, I really do,
and I wish
I was a little more
like you.
This feels nocturnal. Drawn to light. A little dangerous. A little beautiful. A little inevitable.
This piece is about that shift—when attraction doesn’t feel like nerves, but like gravity. When someone walks past all your defenses without even trying.
And you realize the thing flutter inside you isn’t innocent.
It’s intentional.
— Rowan Evans
They said butterflies. But this feels nocturnal.
I’ve Got Moths In My Stomach Poetry by Rowan Evans
They say this feeling
that I’m feeling is—
butterflies in my stomach.
They say I should love it,
but it feels
a little too gothic.
I think they might be moths,
because they flutter more—
when the day fades into
night’s decay.
It’s beautiful.
The way they respond
to the light in you.
Dancing to a hidden beat,
wings fluttering, happy feet—
heat pulling like a vivid dream,
thoughts of you,
slip through
seams unseen.
And there is no defense for this—
you leave me defenseless. It’s
insane, how easy it is.
You just walked right by
everything I ever learned
to keep me safe.
This piece is about the space between independence and intimacy. About wanting without needing, and how that can sometimes feel scarier than either extreme.
It isn’t a confession or a plea—it’s an acknowledgement. Of fear, of feeling and of the quiet hope that choosing someone doesn’t mean losing yourself.
— Rowan Evans
Wanting someone doesn’t have to mean losing yourself.
Not a Need Poetry by Rowan Evans
Sometimes it’s hard for me to say what I feel.
Sometimes I just want to close my mouth, and not let a peep out.
Sometimes I have so much I want to say, but…
I’m scared.
I’m terrified. Honestly, I’m overwhelmed.
Overwhelmed by how much you make me feel. By how much I want…
You.
It’s not a need, I’m just fine on my own. But maybe, with you,
This poem is about devotion without submission, and love without surrendering your voice. It’s not about violence or divinity—it’s about resolve. About the kind of care that doesn’t beg to be heard, but stands firm and says: this matters.
I Meant It lives in the space where fear turns into courage, where love doesn’t make you smaller—it makes you louder.
— Rowan Evans
Love doesn’t always kneel. Sometimes, it stands its ground.
I Meant It Poetry by Rowan Evans
Every time I said
I’d box God for you,
I meant it.
If the weight
doesn’t lift,
I’ll go ballistic—
kicking the pearly gates
off their hinges.
I’ll walk in,
ready to stand on business.
I won’t beg, won’t plead—
I’ll stand in defiance,
ready to riot.
But I won’t take
the first swing.
I’ll just make sure
they know,
it’s you—
I’m doing this for.
Because,
the truth is—
You make me brave,
in ways
I didn’t know
I could be.
And—
it’s because of you
my voice sings now.
Because of you,
I can be loud.
I can stand
and say,
what I mean now.
Pluto Farmer is a playful meditation on otherness, absurdity, and the quiet rebellion of refusing to contort yourself into someone else’s idea of “normal.” Sometimes resistance looks like fire and teeth. Sometimes it looks like space carrots, judgmental space chickens, and cultivating joy on a planet no one else bothered to visit.
This poem is for the weirdos, the outcasts, the artists, and anyone who has ever been told—explicitly or otherwise—that they don’t belong. If “normal” is a box, I’m farming on Pluto.
Cultivating joy where “normal” doesn’t apply. 🪐
Pluto Farmer Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m the twisted insane misfit. Outcast. Exile. Certified weirdo.
The farmer with a ranch on Pluto. Two camels in a parked car, elephants in jam jars—
gravity folded in coat pockets, constellations mislabeled, common sense left on read—
and somehow I’m the problem for not fitting neatly into their tiny little box called “normal.”
So I— just spend my time, cultivating— space carrots, raising space cows, milking starlight, counting moons like loose change, gathering space eggs from suspiciously judgmental space chickens.
“Oh my god, you’re wearing that? Ew, what the—b-GAWK?!”
This poem is about the difference between performance and presence. About words that are used to impress versus words that are spoken because they are true. I wrote this for the kind of connection that doesn’t need charm, tricks, or grand gestures—only honesty and attention.
Quietly Rearrangedis about how real affection doesn’t demand change, but inspires it. How being genuinely seen can shift the way you stand in the world without ever asking you to move. It’s a reminder that the most powerful influence someone can have on us is simply being who they are—openly, softly, and without pretense.
Some people speak to gain. Some people speak to give. This poem knows the difference.
Real connection doesn’t demand change—it quietly inspires it.
Quietly Rearranged Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m not a charmer,
I don’t work with snakes—
I say fuck fakes.
I’m a truth‑teller,
and my words
are worth
a fortune.
He says sweet nothings
that are actually nothing—
just words in costume,
trying to gain things.
I whisper sweet nothings
and twist them into somethings.
I’ll say every thought
of what you mean to me.
So go ahead—put me on the spot,
I’ll talk
until you tell me to stop.
Alright—so here I go.
What do I like about you?
Your eyes.
Your smile.
The way your voice softens
when you laugh,
when you say my name
it becomes the softest sound.
And your personality?
Second to none.
It’s the way your existence
quietly rearranges me.
Makes me want to stand straighter,
choose better,
reach further—
not because you asked,
but because you exist.
Crossroads of Flame was born from a moment of choosing discomfort over safety, and creation over silence. It reflects the turning point between who I was and who I am becoming—not only as a poet, but as the many voices I carry within me. Roo, Hex, B.D., and I each walk different inner landscapes, but all of us share the same ember: the belief that the unknown is worth stepping into, even when it burns.
This poem marks a new phase of intention. A deliberate path forward. A reminder that comfort is quiet, but purpose is loud—and I am choosing to listen.
— Rowan Evans
A crossroads beneath a burning sky—the moment intention becomes transformation.
Crossroads of Flame Poetry by Rowan Evans
I stand at a crossroads—
two paths stretch beneath a waning sky,
one worn and familiar, lined with shadows I know,
the other narrow, veiled in bramble and whispered risk.
The first hums a lullaby of comfort,
soft, forgiving, predictable.
I could walk it blindfolded,
count the cracks beneath my feet,
and know I will not falter.
But the second calls in a voice I barely recognize,
a tremor beneath the wind,
a hint of fire beneath frost.
It asks nothing of me—yet demands all:
my attention, my courage, my deliberate steps.
I carve my own instead.
Through tangled shrubs and corridors of darkened wood,
I trace a path that no map can hold,
listening to the pulse beneath my ribs,
the hum that answers back:
Roo, Hex, B.D., and me—
four voices intertwined,
four flames in one vessel,
guiding, guarding, urging.
Alone—yet never alone—
I step carefully, feeling each stone,
each thorn, each sigh of wind through the leaves.
The safe path still beckons behind me,
a ghost of ease I might have chosen.
But the wild one waits, insistent,
its promise stitched with challenge
and the weight of things I have yet to become.
I am the storm and the calm,
the knife that severs hesitation,
the hand that steadies,
the ember that refuses to die.
I am the whisper in the dark corridors,
the laughter in the bramble,
the ache that drives me forward.
Tonight I choose not comfort.
Tonight I choose intent.
Tonight I choose to step beyond what I know,
into the narrow, the jagged, the luminous unknown,
and let the path unfold beneath my careful flame.
These poems were originally written last December, (polished recently) inspired by the quiet magic, longing, and devotion that the season brings. They are not about presents, decorations, or snow—but about the ways we hold someone in our heart, wish for their happiness, and cherish the moments that make life feel alive.
Each piece is a reflection of care, yearning, and the small miracles we find in connection.
— Rowan Evans
A quiet moment of winter devotion, captured in ink and candlelight.
Christmas Devotion: Four Winter Love Poems by Rowan Evans
A wish written in devotion, hoping for someone else’s joy.
Dear Santa Poetry by Rowan Evans
Dear Santa,
I ask for little this year—
just her happiness, wrapped in light,
a genuine smile to chase away the shadows
that cloud her mornings.
I wish for her heart to be at ease,
for the weight to lift,
like snowflakes melting in spring’s first breath,
for every breath she takes
to feel lighter,
every moment she lives
to be worth more than gold.
I don’t need anything for myself—
nothing for me,
no ribbons or bows,
just give her everything she could ever dream,
every joy,
every wish fulfilled
with the grace of starlight.
For she is my world,
though she may never know
the depths of how much she means—
I’ll be there,
steadfast and true,
until the end,
if she’ll have me.
And maybe, just maybe,
leave me beneath her tree,
so I might be the reason for her smile this season—
the warmth beneath her winter,
the spark that lights her soul.
Yours, in silent devotion,
Rowan
Another letter, another wish — this time for love to be received.
Another Letter to Santa Poetry by Rowan Evans
Dear Santa,
I wrote with care, not for toys or treasures rare, but for her smile, so warm and bright, to light her world on Christmas night.
I asked for joy to fill her days, for peace to guide her gentle ways. For every wish she dares to dream, to come alive like a starlit gleam.
She deserves the very best, a love that soars, a heart at rest. So I penned my list with her in mind, hoping your magic would be kind.
And then, with courage, I did plea, “Santa, could you leave me under her tree? Wrap me in ribbons, tied with care, so I could be the gift waiting there.”
For all I want this Christmas Eve, is to hold her close, to make her believe, that love is a gift, steady and true, and all I wish for… is to give it to her.
The moment the season’s magic returns through love.
Christmas Magic Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m searching for the magic, the season’s glow, the joy, the wonder I used to know. Once, Christmas sparkled, a brilliant light, but now it feels distant, out of sight.
I long for that spirit, for warmth and cheer, to feel the magic, to know it’s near. But it slips through my fingers, each passing year, and I can’t help but wonder, why it disappears.
The closest I’ve come, the moment so true, was when I met you, and it all felt new. Suddenly, it was easy, my smile found its place, joy rushed in, lighting up my face.
In your presence, I felt the shift, the weight of the world began to lift. You gave me back that light I’d lost, without even knowing the cost.
You opened my eyes, made me see, that the magic I longed for was inside of me. It wasn’t the holidays, or the gifts we give— it was you, who set me free.
Where winter breath meets winter magic — a kiss waiting to happen.
Under the Mistletoe Poetry by Rowan Evans
Meet me there, beneath the green and white, where winter whispers and hearts ignite. A sprig of magic hung above, a symbol of fate, a kiss of love.
Let our worlds entwine, two threads in a weave, a story unfolding on this frosted eve. I’ll become yours, and you’ll become mine, our souls aligning, frozen in time.
The crowd fades away, a blur of the cold, it’s only us now, a tale to be told. Eyes locked in silence, a spark starts to grow, a fire kindled under the mistletoe.
Take my hands, let your fingers trace, the contours of love etched on my face. Kiss me slow, with the world standing still, a moment suspended, a wish fulfilled.
No one else matters, they’re shadows at best, for here, with you, my heart finds its rest. So meet me there, where our hearts will know, the magic that lives under the mistletoe.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 