Satire – Poetry by Rowan Evans

Comic Book Confidence | A Funny Superhero-Inspired Poem by Rowan Evans

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

Comic Book Confidence is me asking a very important question:

What if I had superhero confidence without actually having superhero powers?

The answer, apparently, is several increasingly terrible decisions.

I wanted to play with the mythology of comic-book heroes—the wall-crawling, flying, super-speed, impossible confidence—and translate that into a deliberately ridiculous poetic narrative. Every time the speaker decides they must have discovered a new power, reality immediately provides a correction.

That’s what makes the piece fun for me. It’s not really about superheroes; it’s about confidence outrunning competence.

And maybe that’s something worth laughing at in ourselves sometimes. We imagine ourselves as Spider-Man, Superman, The Flash, Batman—and then gravity reminds us that we’re still just people.

So this is Battle Rowan in a different form:

No superpowers.
No safety net.
Just confidence, bad decisions, and a pen.

— Rowan Evans

Turns out confidence is a superpower. Unfortunately, gravity isn’t impressed.

Comic Book Confidence
Poetry by Rowan Evans

Put glue on my hands,
and try to climb the walls—
yeah, tried to Spider-Man it.
Fell, got hurt, it was a curse—
goddamnit!

Okay, so that’s not the power I got
and honestly, I’m shocked—
Maybe I can fly? Maybe I’ll try,
sheet tied and I climbed, high—
from this vantage point I could see,
everyone looking like ants to me.

Took one step then up, up and away.
I jumped toward the summit—I Superman’d it.
For a second, thought I made it—
but really, I just—plummet.
Yes, there I was hurtling—
quick as shit toward the Earth,
oh man, this is gonna hurt,
just as soon as I hit the dirt.

Oof, cough, wheeze—
that was me trying to breathe.
I had hit chest first,
knocked the air out of me—
I struggled to my feet,
stumbling into a jog—
like I had somewhere to be,
and someone to meet—

but I just had to run it off,
Barry Allen, vibrating through a wall—
or nah—
smashed my head, I’m wobblin’—
vision blurred, words slurred,
delusion settin’ in—now I think I’m Batman
and I’m Robin.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[Kaio-ken with a Pen/Zenkai]
Two Dragon Ball-inspired battle poems about creative power, survival, and coming back stronger. Kaio-ken with a Pen brings the attack, while Zenkai (Stronger Now) delivers the aftermath: push me to the edge, and I’ll return stronger than before.

[The Inkbender]
What if poetry was another form of bending? The Inkbender transforms the philosophies of Avatar: The Last Airbender into a celebration of language, creativity, rage, healing, and the power of the written word.

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

Aug 23, 2026 5:00 PM

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Don’t Push Me | A Playful Battle-Poetry Piece About Standing Your Ground

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

Don’t Push Me is another exercise in letting my battle-poet voice stretch its legs.

This isn’t meant as a literal threat or a callout toward any particular person. It’s playful bravado—the kind of exaggerated, cartoonish toughness that happens when I take an ordinary insult, run it through my sense of humor, and see how far I can push the rhyme.

The opening starts with something I’ve genuinely heard for most of my life: being called “four-eyes.” From there, the poem turns that insult into ammunition. If you’re going to give me material, I’m going to make something out of it.

And then, naturally, my brain couldn’t resist sabotaging the intimidation.

I’m not— (shhh, nice kitty)

Because apparently even Battle Rowan has an editor.
Sometimes the strongest thing you can do with anger isn’t explode.
Sometimes it’s turn it into a punchline.

— Rowan Evans

Sometimes you don’t have to throw the first punch—you just have to know what to do with the material they give you.

Don’t Push Me
Poetry by Rowan Evans

You called me four-eyes?
And you want me
to react to that?
I’ve had glasses since I was two,
bifocals since five—
I’ve had four eyes,
longer than you’ve been alive.

What’s next?
You gonna call me slow?

(I’m fast as fuck, boi.)

Physically or mentally?
Doesn’t matter though,
there’s something
you should know.

I don’t back down,
I stand my ground—
because every fight I’m in,
is like a fight for my life—
I’m scrawny as fuck, man,
still use no weapons—
just fists, no knife.

So trust me—

you don’t want the jokes to stop,
you don’t want to know
what it’s like, when I really talk—

so please don’t push me,
’cause I’m not— (shhh, nice kitty)

Journey into the Hexverse…

[B.S.T.F.U.]
A playful battle-poetry exercise packed with insults, internal rhymes, punchlines, wordplay, and literary swagger. B.S.T.F.U. is Rowan Evans flexing the verbal muscles—not calling out anyone in particular.

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

Aug 21, 2026 5:00 PM

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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

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]

Aug 20, 2026 6:59 PM

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Impasta (A Diss in Pasta Form) | Tony Stanza’s Pasta Poetry Diss

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

Ayo…

Tony Stanza is back.

And apparently, he has beef with another poet.

Unfortunately for that poet, Tony has discovered pasta.

Impasta (A Diss in Pasta Form) is exactly what it sounds like: a diss poem written almost entirely through pasta-related wordplay. Spaghetti becomes “impasta.” Fettuccine becomes “alfredo.” Macaroni becomes a metaphor for having no backbone. Ravioli becomes something that folds under pressure.

And Tony is absolutely convinced this is devastating.

That is what makes Tony Stanza fun.

He isn’t trying to be subtle. He isn’t trying to sound sophisticated. He is a fictional poet who has apparently decided that every pasta dish is an opportunity for literary violence.

But underneath the ridiculousness, there is a real little diss hiding in here.

The target isn’t merely being called a bad poet. They’re being accused of being derivative, fragile, empty, and dependent on other people’s work. The pasta metaphors are ridiculous, but the criticism itself is surprisingly straightforward:

Your work isn’t yours.

Your confidence doesn’t survive pressure.

And underneath all that presentation, there’s nothing there.

Of course, Tony couldn’t possibly just say that.

He had to make it about spaghetti.

This is also another piece in the growing mythology of Tony Stanza—the “greatest poet you’ve never heard of,” a poet whose signature “Ayo…” apparently signals that something deeply unserious is about to happen.

If I write anything pasta-related from this point forward, Tony Stanza did it.

I don’t make the rules.

Tony does.

— Rowan Evans

Ayo…
Tony Stanza has entered the kitchen.
And somebody’s about to get impasta’d. 🍝

Impasta (A Diss in Pasta Form)
Poetry by Tony Stanza

Ayo…

I call you spaghetti—
because you’re just
an impasta. (Imposter.)
Your rhymes are cheesy.
Parmesan.

All these suckers fettucine.
They alfredo. (afraid though.)
Yeah, these bitches is macaroni.
All elbows. No backbone.

They talk a lot a ravioli—
but fold when pressure hits,
seam splits—
and you realize they were
full of nothing, no substance.

You thought you were angel hair, capellini,
the chosen one—divinity with a pen.
But you’re just thin-skinned, overcooked,
fragile to the core.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[Lost in the Sauce]
A playful heartbreak poem where sandwiches, ketchup, mustard, rye, lettuce, and sourdough become metaphors for emotional confusion. Beneath the food puns is a speaker trying to understand how everything went from “we’re okay” to suddenly feeling cold.

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

Aug 17, 2026 2:05 AM

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No Stupid Questions — A Poem About Listening, Curiosity & Frustration

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

Sometimes a poem doesn’t need to be profound.

Sometimes it just needs to say, “Please fucking listen.”

No Stupid Questions came from that particular kind of frustration—the kind that happens when someone asks something that has already been answered, interrupts the flow of a conversation, or throws a question into the room without stopping to consider whether the information they want is already sitting right in front of them.

The old saying goes, “There are no stupid questions.”

I don’t completely agree.

Questions aren’t inherently stupid. Curiosity is valuable, and asking for clarification is often exactly what we should do. But there is a difference between genuinely wanting to understand something and simply asking whatever crosses your mind without listening to what was already said.

This poem is intentionally blunt because the frustration is blunt.

It’s conversational, a little sarcastic, and unapologetically irritated. There are times when I want my poetry to dress an idea in metaphor and symbolism. Other times, I just want to point at the problem and say exactly what I mean.

No metaphor.

No elaborate mythology.

No moon, tide, raven, or rose to hide behind.

Just:

You already got your answer.

Listen.

— Rowan Evans

P.S. – The end of this piece is entirely a joke.

No Stupid Questions
Poetry by Rowan Evans

You know—

the person that said,
“there’s no such thing
as a stupid question,”—

probably asked a lot
of stupid questions,
just like you—

Not trying to be rude
or give attitude—

but dude,
you asked that question
out of the blue.

(And it was dumb,
it was a stupid question…
I had to break the flow to tell you,
you asked a stupid question.)

I already told you—

I already answered back,
if you need the information
then listen—I already gave you that.

Do you even think
before you speak,
or do you just
let your thoughts fly?

You don’t have to ask
every question
that comes to mind.

I don’t care
if you are a child.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[You Are Perfect]
A gentle reminder that your worth isn’t determined by your flaws or by the opinions of others. You Are Perfect is a poem about resilience, self-acceptance, and standing tall even when the world tries to make you feel small.

[Human Rorschach]
Sometimes we’re less a fixed person than an inkblot—our meaning changing with every set of eyes that looks at us. Human Rorschach explores perception, identity, and the ways our own experiences shape what we believe we see in others.

[A Rose in the Ashes]
Lost within a forest where every leaf becomes a memory, the speaker follows darkness instead of fleeing from it, discovering that healing isn’t found at the end of the tunnel—but in facing the past long enough to notice a single rose blooming through the ashes.

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

Aug 8, 2026 7:18 PM

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Noon Is Loud by Rowan Evans | A Humorous Free Verse Poem About Ego, Imagination & Absurdity

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

Some poems arrive in the middle of the night carrying emotional truths.

This one showed up in broad daylight carrying absolute nonsense.

The idea started with a simple contrast: if four in the morning is where my most honest poems seem to live, then maybe noon is where my imagination completely loses supervision.
So I let it.

Every claim in this poem becomes more ridiculous than the last. Ghostwriting the Ten Commandments. Inventing fire. Starting sci-fi fandom wars. Building the pyramids. Handling first contact with aliens.

It’s satire, exaggeration, and the kind of storytelling that knows it’s lying while inviting you to enjoy the ride anyway.

At its heart, though, there’s a small observation hiding beneath all the absurdity.

Sometimes the stories we tell ourselves depend entirely on what time it is.

At four in the morning, we confess.

At noon, we become legends.

This poem belongs to the latter.

— Rowan Evans

When noon gets too loud, every impossible story suddenly feels true.

Noon Is Loud
Poetry by Rowan Evans

If four AM is the time of truth—
I guess it’s all lies at noon.
Do you remember when—
I was topping the charts
and breaking the hearts.

And what about the time
that I had to save the planet—
I had to be the one to stare
down the barrel of a laser gun.
But I handled first contact like a G,
that’s why the Aliens are cool with me.

I created Star Treks and Star Wars,
specifically to start beef in sci fi fandoms.
Nobody knew, I was the phantom menace—
the creator of the lore, everyone wanted to Klingon.
And Dune? That was me too.

I’ve gone to war with Gods
over migraines and frowns,
but never my own—
I’ve talked about it in other poems.

And yes, I am a sports expert—
I know everything there is to know,
it’s all stats, no narrative.
Formations, players and defensive schemes.
These are all words that I know what they mean.

The pyramids? I built those—
the Eiffel Tower too.
The Hubble Telescope?
Inspired by the childhood glasses that I wore.

The Ten Commandments?
I was the ghost writer—
I was also the inventor of fire,
the wheel and combustion engines.

Anyway—
that’s what I remember.

But noon is loud,
and the lies come easy—
so I’ll stop here
before I rewrite the universe again.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[More Afraid Than the Ink]
Some confessions are easy to write but impossible to speak. More Afraid Than the Ink explores fear, dreams, recurring symbols, and the quiet realization that the page has always been braver than the poet.

[When the Veil Is Thin]
Some truths wait until after four in the morning to make themselves known. When the Veil Is Thin explores insomnia, longing, quiet vulnerability, and the thoughts that become impossible to ignore before dawn.

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

Jul 23, 2026 4:00 PM

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Content Warning | A Humorous Poetry Roast of Bad Storytelling and Bad People

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This poem wasn’t planned.
It wasn’t outlined.
It wasn’t even politely invited.

It showed up at 6:58 AM, unannounced, fully formed, and absolutely determined to be written. I was trying to go back to sleep, but the first nine lines kept repeating in my head like a notification I couldn’t clear. So I got up, opened my notes, and twenty‑two minutes later this entire piece existed.

It’s not deep.
It’s not symbolic.
It’s not part of a series.

It’s just what happens when my brain decides to roast someone using the language of literature and refuses to let me rest until I write it down.

Most of my recent work has been heavy, reflective, rooted in longing and transition. This one is… not that. This is me having fun. This is me letting the metaphorical knife out for a morning stroll. This is me, writing the poetic equivalent of a one‑star Goodreads review for a person who deserved it.

If you’re here for emotional devastation, don’t worry — I’ll get back to that soon.
But for now, enjoy this brief intermission of petty, poetic chaos.

— Rowan Evans

“Some stories deserve five stars. Others deserve a content warning.”

Content Warning
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I’m going to tell you like it is,
if I don’t like you—
I’m going to say it quick.

I read you like a book,
the moment you entered my view.
I read you like my favorite series,
finished in a day—

but you’re a book, full of plot holes.
Your narrative is flawed.

Your dialogue is forced,
your motives unclear,
your character arc
never quite lands, dear.

I don’t need a sequel
to know how this ends.
Some stories fall apart
before the final page—
and yours was unraveling
from the start.

Your thoughts are typos,
in need of rewrite, bro—
editor should have lost their job, too.

How were you released to the public?

Your plot twists fall flat,
your pacing drags,
your themes contradict
every claim you make.

What genre are you even in?

You’re a draft
that never should’ve passed
the first round of edits—

a story stitched together
with clichés and guesswork.

I’ve read fanfiction
with tighter structure
and more believable motives.

You’re not a novel—
you’re a warning label
masquerading as prose.

You should come with a content warning:

This content blows.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[The Monster in the Margins]
Drawing inspiration from horror icons like Michael Myers, Ghostface, Freddy Krueger, and Pennywise, this poem explores the darker side of creativity—where inspiration becomes an unstoppable force lurking just beyond the edge of the page.

[Director’s Commentary]
Director’s Commentary is a self-aware free verse poem that turns the poet’s recurring metaphors into the subject itself, exploring creativity, artistic habits, and the humorous inner critic that follows every writer from draft to draft.

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

Jul 15, 2026 5:00 PM

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Shuddup, Fuckboy | Feminist Poetry by Rowan Evans

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This one’s for the ones who think their ego gives them a crown. A little feminist sermon in C minor, sharp, funny, and unflinchingly honest. Consider it a poetic mic-drop for all the Fuckboys out there—because sometimes silence really is golden… especially when it’s his.

A visual representation of ‘Shuddup, Fuckboy’—a feminist mic-drop in poetry form.

Shuddup, Fuckboy
(A Feminist Sermon in C Minor)
Poetry by Rowan Evans

“Because silence is golden — especially when it’s his.”

Oh, you talked to a woman once
and now you think you know it all?
Shuddup, Fuckboy.

Every picture you send is a dick pic,
because you’re a dick, bitch.
Foreplay?
You think that’s texting “u up?”
at 2am
like a horny raccoon in the DMs.

You quote Jordan Peterson,
have a podcast no one listens to,
and think “emotional labor”
is a kink.
It’s not.
Grow up.

Shuddup, Fuckboy.
You say you’re “sapiosexual”
but can’t spell it.
You call yourself a feminist
just long enough
to get her clothes off.
Then it’s
“Well, not all men…”
Cue the sirens.
We found the problem.

You’re the human version
of an unsolicited voice memo—
loud, unnecessary,
and somehow
still managing to mansplain
her own trauma back to her.

You think “being nice”
entitles you to a throne.
But baby,
you’re not a king—
you’re a court jester
in H&M joggers,
still waiting on that SoundCloud career
to take off.

Shuddup, Fuckboy.
You call her crazy
after gaslighting her for months,
then cry when she leaves
like you didn’t hand her the matches
and beg her to dance
while everything burned.

You ghost, then breadcrumb,
then ghost again—
a Scooby-Doo villain
of romantic incompetence.

“Sorry, I’ve just been really busy.”
Right.
Busy re-downloading Tinder
because one woman
had standards.

Shuddup, Fuckboy.
Even your mirror rolls its eyes.
Even your shadow
doesn’t follow you anymore.

And me?
I don’t need revenge.
I’ve got receipts,
growth,
and a front-row seat
to your slow-motion
emotional bankruptcy.

Enjoy your echo chamber
of “not all men.”
And those crusty gym selfies.
You’re not misunderstood—
you’re just mid.

Shuddup, Fuckboy.
And maybe
for once in your life—
just listen.

Shh—
Shuddup, Fuckboy.

If you liked this, you might like some of my other pieces. You can find the archives [here].

Oct 12, 2025 2:54 AM

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