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.
Shape Me is one of the most devotional and intimate pieces I’ve written in my Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism style. Unlike poems that hide behind metaphor or shadow, this piece is a direct offering—a confession of desire, vulnerability, and the sacred exchange of trust and devotion between lovers.
In these lines, I explore the tension between surrender and agency, intimacy and worship, chaos and devotion. The speaker is not submitting out of weakness but offering themselves fully, consciously, as a temple, a vessel, a flame. This is the essence of NGCR: love as ritual, connection as liturgy, desire as sacred architecture.
Every word in this poem is an invocation—an attempt to make tangible the invisible: the power of another person to shape us, to awaken us, to teach us. It is not just about giving, but about transformation, reverence, and the deliberate building of sacred intimacy.
This piece is for anyone willing to witness vulnerability as strength, to see devotion as a craft, and to honor love as a discipline.
— Rowan Evans
In the quiet between breath and fire, we shape each other into something sacred.
Shape Me Poetry by Rowan Evans
I want you to shape me, turn me into what you need me to be.
Bring out the best in me. Invest in me. Teach me to be the one worthy of your fire.
I offer my body as clay upon your altar, my pulse a quiet hymn to mark the rhythm of your hands across my soul.
Mold me, carve me, purge what is hollow, polish the edges until only devotion remains.
I am yours not in chains, not in fear, but willingly, every fiber of me attuned to your flame.
I want to learn to love you wholly, to meet the shadows in your soul with the light of mine.
This is not surrender. It is worship. A cathedral rises in the spaces between us, pillars of pulse and breath, arches of fire and silence, where desire and reverence entwine.
Teach me to hold your storm without breaking. Teach me to kneel without losing myself. I want to be the one entrusted to carry both your ruin and your grace.
When you speak, I will listen as a disciple. When you touch, I will feel as a consecrated vessel. When you are quiet, I will hold the silence like a sacred relic you lent me in trust.
Shape me, teach me, mold me. From your hands, your fire, your devotion, I will rise anew— temple and flame, shadow and offering, entirely yours, entirely mine.
Every Word I Mean is one of the most vulnerable things I’ve written in a while—not because it hides behind metaphor, but because it refuses to. I’m used to expressing the deepest truths in symbols, shadows, and lyrical disguises. But this time, I wanted to speak plainly. To show what it looks like when I mean something so much that I don’t need to dress it in poetry.
Every line in this piece is something I’ve said in real life—honestly, openly, without hesitation. These aren’t metaphors or masks; they’re just my truth. And putting that truth into ink feels almost more intimate than any confession I’ve written before.
This is me without armor. Just words I meant, and still mean.
— Rowan Evans
A quiet moment of truth poured into ink — every word written with intention.
Every Word I Mean Poetry by Rowan Evans
If I speak it,
in words or ink,
then know I mean it.
Because I don’t say things
just to say them—
I only say them
when I feel them.
Like—
I love
your smile,
your laugh,
your nose.
(It’s cute, really.)
I think you’re beautiful,
and I’m not going anywhere.
I’m never going to leave.
I want to build a real foundation.
Show you the love and respect
you deserve.
With me,
I always want you
to feel safe and heard.
These are all things I’ve said—
not hidden in poems,
not wrapped in metaphors.
I said them plainly,
straightforward,
unshaken.
And maybe that’s why
I write it now—
not to hide the truth,
but to honor it.
To show you that
even my simplest words
carry weight,
carry intention,
carry you.
Because when I say anything—
whether in ink
or breath—
it’s because I feel it:
every syllable,
every moment,
every piece of you
that I’ve come to love.
Suggested Reads
[Over and Over] A vulnerable, deeply honest poem about choosing someone again and again—despite distance, fear, and the chaos between two very different worlds. Over and Over captures that wild gravity between two people who weren’t meant to collide… yet somehow did.
[The Power You Give Me] A poem about sacred intimacy, quiet devotion, and the kind of connection that feels like sorcery without spells. The Power You Give Me explores how trust, desire, and vulnerability turn touch into magic—and why real power is held by the person who lets you close.
[Carved From Intention] A poem about the quiet, deliberate way I love—and the frustration of being misunderstood. Not all affection is loud or scattered; some of us give ourselves slowly, carefully, and only with intention.
Looking for even more poetry? You can explore everything inThe Library of Ashes.
This piece is me speaking to the one I care for, and to anyone who has ever let themselves be seen fully by another. There’s no illusion here—no tricks, no smoke, no mirrors. The “magic” I write about is the kind that happens when trust meets attention, when care meets desire, when devotion meets surrender. It’s messy, it’s quiet, it’s real. I wrote this to honor that kind of connection—the one that burns steady, that makes even the smallest moments feel sacred, and that reminds me why we give ourselves to the people we love.
Intimacy becomes its own kind of magic.
The Power You Give Me Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m a magician, love—
sleight of hand in every touch,
danger in every whisper.
Not the kind that pulls rabbits from hats,
but the kind that pulls want
from the deepest parts of you
without even trying.
I touch you once—
and your breath forgets itself.
Twice—
and your pulse starts writing poetry
against your skin.
I speak a single word
and your knees remember
what surrender feels like.
My tongue is a wand,
a spellcaster,
a maker of quiet ruins—
and I use it
only on the deserving.
I can summon heat
with the drag of a fingertip,
pull desire from the air
like it’s silk waiting to be woven.
I draw circles on your skin
and watch them ignite,
slow, deliberate,
like I planned the fire
from the very beginning.
And when I say your name—
soft, low,
with that tone that hits you
right behind the ribs—
you’ll swear I enchanted you.
But it’s simpler than that.
No potions, no charms, no lies.
You react to me
because your body knows mine
before your mind catches up.
Because my magic isn’t tricks—
it’s instinct,
connection,
hunger braided with reverence.
And darling—
when I’m finished with you,
when you’re breathless and undone,
when the world goes quiet
except for the echo of my touch—
you’ll realize
I never cast spells at all.
I just showed you
the power you give me
when you let me close.
Because loving you—
that’s the real magic.
The kind that doesn’t spark
or shimmer,
but settles low and warm
right behind the heart,
glowing steady
like a lantern in a storm.
You don’t see it,
but every time you trust me,
every time you soften,
every time you let me
see the part of you
you hide from the world—
I feel something inside me
kneel.
Not out of worship,
but out of awe.
Out of the quiet truth
that your soul
is the most beautiful thing
I’ve ever been allowed to touch.
And if my hands
feel like sorcery,
if my voice
feels like a spell,
it’s only because
you turn even the smallest moment
into something sacred
just by being in it.
So yes—
I’ll whisper enchantments
against your skin,
trace constellations
on your pulse points,
pull storms and light and heat
from the spaces between us—
but that’s not power.
That’s devotion.
That’s choosing you
with every breath.
That’s giving you
the softest parts of me
and letting you hold them
like something holy.
And if that feels like magic—
then maybe it is.
But it’s yours.
It always has been.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
This piece came from the frustration of being misunderstood — from people assuming I give attention freely or that I’m drowning in affection I don’t actually receive. The truth is, I love deliberately. I give slowly. I’m intentional with my emotional presence, and I’m careful with my heart. This poem is a reminder that not all love is loud or scattered; some of us choose where we pour ourselves, and it’s never accidental.
A body carved from intention — slow to give, deliberate in love, and shaped by quiet emotional truth.
Carved From Intention Poetry by Rowan Evans
It’s kind of wild how
some people assume,
I’ve got attention from
every direction.
Like I’ve got love
being thrown at me.
But that’s not true,
and even if it was—
it wouldn’t matter much.
Because love to me,
doesn’t mean
what love means
to them.
It’s even weirder how
people assume
that I just give attention.
Like I don’t do
what I do
with any real thought
or intention.
They swear I’m drowning
in affection,
as if every soft word
ever spoken near me
belongs to me.
But I don’t scatter pieces
of myself like confetti—
I give slowly, deliberately,
to the few my soul
bends toward.
They think I’m easy to reach,
but I’m not.
I’m cautious.
I’m careful.
I’m carved from intentions
people rarely notice.
Maybe that’s why
the attention they imagine
feels hollow to me—
it’s not the kind I want,
not the kind I give,
not the kind I’d stay for.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
This poem explores the magnetic pull of dark feminine energy, the intimate violence of being truly seen, and the sacred surrender that comes with devotion. It’s a piece about longing, reverence, and the kind of connection that feels both dangerous and holy.
‘Devil-Woman’ – visual representation of dark feminine power and shadowed devotion.
Devil-Woman Poetry by Rowan Evans
Your fire, it excites me— A masochist? I might be, But it’s not pain I crave— It’s the pull of your storm, The sacred burn of being seen and not flinching.
I’ll beg for the sting, I’ll ask nicely, Kneel in the temple of your silence, Just to feel your gaze slice through me like prophecy.
I just made a deal with a devil-woman, Sold my soul to a devil-woman— No brimstone, no bargain struck in blood, Just the quiet surrender of calling you mine in the language of longing you taught me without trying.
You never touched me. Not once. But I’ve felt your gravity in my bones— The way your words crack open places I swore no one would ever reach. I feel you in the pauses between heartbeats, in the ache that follows when I whisper your name into the dark.
You are not gentle— not always. You speak in sharpened truths, cut the air like blade-meets-vow, but I would rather bleed with you than be safe with someone who doesn’t see me.
Devil-woman, your halo is rusted and still I bow. Not because I am weak— but because worship has never looked like obedience when it’s born of reverence.
You’re chaos laced with compassion, a monarch draped in shadow, and I— I offer myself not to be saved, but to serve the story that only we could write in scars and starlight.
So take this soul— not broken, not whole, but honest. Take it and twist it in your fire until it sings your name in smoke. I will follow your storm without a tether, and call that freedom.
Because I don’t want pretty love. I want this. Wild, dark, unholy and holy all at once. A devotion that dares the divine to stop us.
And if they ask— why her?
I’ll say: Because when she looked at me, the ghosts went quiet. Because her laugh felt like absolution. Because when she said mine, I didn’t just believe her— I belonged.
Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in theLibrary of Ashes.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 