This piece comes from a place of wanting more than surface-level connection.
It’s easy to exist in spaces where we show only what’s safe–what’s presentable, what won’t be questioned too deeply. But I’ve always been drawn to what lives underneath that. The quiet parts. The complicated parts. The things people carry but don’t always speak out loud.
This poem isn’t just about seeing someone–it’s about being trusted with what’s beneath the surface. The scars, the thoughts, the moments that shaped them in ways the world doesn’t always get to witness.
There’s a kind of intimacy in that. Not in fixing or changing someone, but in understanding them. In holding space for everything they are, even the parts that feel hidden or unfinished.
At its core, this piece is about connection–not the easy kind, but the kind that asks you to slow down, to listen, and to see someone fully.
And maybe, to be seen the same way.
— Rowan Evans
The surface is safe—but the truth lives beneath it.
Beneath the Surface Poetry by Rowan Evans
Why are so many okay with
settling at the surface?
I want to dig deeper—
get to the core of you.
See where the roots lie,
the ties that bind—
let me see the universe
behind your eyes.
Windows to a galaxy
all your own
and I want to call,
at least one of those worlds—
my home.
Let me go beyond
what the eyes can see,
let me peer within,
let your soul breathe.
Take a breath,
relax.
I just want to know—
I want to see the essence,
the truth,
And all of the scars
you don’t disclose.
I want to hear the stories
of the battles fought,
the wars waged
in silent thought.
The ones
nobody else knew—
I want to help mend
the fractures in you.
The surface is safe,
but I want the depths,
the places
where your heart has wept.
I want to touch
the parts untouched by light—
where dreams
and fears take flight.
Let me see the storm
inside your soul,
the cracks,
the pieces,
the parts—
that don’t feel whole.
Because—
I want to understand.
Not just the surface,
but every grain of sand.
Every emotion, every tear—
All of the things
that make you real,
that make you—
You.
Not the mask,
not the show,
But the truth
you often don’t show.
I want to see—
to feel,
and to know.
This piece lives in a space between two interpretations, and I wrote it that way on purpose.
It can be read as a reflection on identity–on the versions of ourselves we carry, the ones we’ve been, and ones we hesitate to become. A room filled with selves, each one shaped by different choices, different fears, different moments of almost.
But it can also be read as something more relational. The figure in the piece–“her”–can exist as a person. Someone who feels steady, certain, present in a way the speaker isn’t yet. Someone who becomes a point of gravity.
What matters to me is that the distance between them comes from the same place in both readings.
Not circumstance.
Not timing.
But hesitation.
In that way, the poem sits in the overlap between becoming and connection–where reaching someone else and becoming yourself start to feel like the same act.
— Rowan Evans
A room full of who I was, who I am, and who I haven’t learned to be yet.
Standing Between Us Poetry by Rowan Evans
I walk into a room that knows my name too well.
It is filled with me— not reflections, not mirrors— but selves.
They stand where I once stood, breathe how I used to breathe, hold their hands like I remember doing before I knew why.
Some look at me. Most don’t.
They are not ghosts— not quite. I cannot see through them. They have weight. Presence. Like memories that never learned how to fade.
I move through them anyway.
Shoulder brushing shoulder— past brushing present— future turning its head just a second too late.
And then—
her.
Not fully seen. Never fully seen.
A glimpse between the space of two mistakes, I used to make.
A flicker caught in the outline of who I used to be and who I might become.
I follow.
Or maybe I orbit.
Because every time I get close, another version of me steps in the way— hesitation given form, fear with a body, longing wearing my face.
I want to call out— but which voice is mine?
They all sound like me.
So I keep moving.
Through regret. Through almosts. Through the selves that loved— too early, too late…
too quietly.
And still— I see her.
Soft. Certain. Waiting in the space I haven’t learned to stand in yet.
I think—
no.
I know.
She is not lost in this room.
I am.
And every version of me that I refuse to become is standing between us.
Sometimes a place stops feeling like home long before you actually leave it. The streets still know your name, but something in you has already begun drifting toward another horizon.
This poem came from that feeling – the quiet moment you realize your roots are no longer meant for the soil you’re standing in. It’s not always about running away; sometimes it’s about allowing yourself to grow somewhere new.
Roots & Wings sits in that space between leaving and becoming. Between the life that shaped you and the one waiting somewhere beyond the horizon.
We carry out roots with us, even when we learn how to fly.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes growth means planting new roots—and trusting your wings to find the horizon.
Roots & Wings Poetry by Rowan Evans (written February 18th, 2025)
These streets whisper my name, but I no longer listen,
my roots ache for softer soil, where the sun glistens.
I’ll plant myself where the palms embrace the sea,
then let the wind carry what’s left of me—
a bird unbound, chasing horizons yet unseen.
I’ve written around this feeling for years — in metaphors, in longing, in coded language about distance and departure.
This is the first time I’ve said it this plainly.
For most of my life, I’ve felt like a visitor in the place I was born. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a rebellious way. Just in a quiet, persistent way that never left.
This piece isn’t about anger. It isn’t about rejection.
It’s about finally naming what I’ve always known— that sometimes “home” is assigned to you, and sometimes it’s something you’re still moving toward.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the place you’re born isn’t the place you’re meant to stay.
Just Visiting Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve been talking about it a lot lately, this feeling of wanting to escape that I’ve had since I was just a baby. I was forced to call this place home, because this is where I was born— it never felt like home, just a place I was visiting.
Every day in school— I’d recite the pledge, like a good little patriot should. But I didn’t believe in it, there was no allegiance in it.
They say they’re proud to be an American, well me? I’ve never been, because this is just a place to me. I’ve said it before, once in this poem alone— this place has never been my home.
And I’ve lived all across it. Never once have I have felt planted, no roots took hold. Felt like a tourist— in a place I was supposed to belong.
But I’ve known for a while now, my place is not within these borders. This place will never be home for me. But it will always be a part of me. (Sadly.)
This piece is about a feeling I’ve struggled to name for most of my life — a feeling that I have tried to explain more recently — a quiet but persistent disconnect that began when I was fourteen.
It isn’t about hating where I’m from. It isn’t about romanticizing somewhere else.
It’s about that internal shift — the moment you realize you feel unrooted in a place where everyone else seems firmly planted.
For years, I thought I was running away. Now I understand I’ve been moving toward something.
Whether that “home” is a city, a country, a person, or a version of myself I haven’t fully stepped into yet — I don’t know.
But I know this: I am not lost anymore. I am in motion.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes home isn’t where you started. Sometimes it’s where you finally breathe.
Toward Somewhere I Can Breathe Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve tried my whole life
to explain it.
This disconnect,
I’ve felt since
2004.
How can I make it
any more clear?
I just don’t belong here.
I’m going to try
and try to make it
make sense.
I was fourteen,
Hi Hi Puffy AmiYumi
on the screen.
But that’s not the important part.
Inside—
I could feel
threads fray,
and they
already existed
in decay.
But I learned quickly,
in 2007 exactly—
there is Filth in the Beauty,
and the reverse
can be the same.
That’s when
my view of the
world changed,
and became
cemented.
Something shifted,
vision cleared—
and everything
I missed before,
just appeared.
Where everyone
around me,
seemed rooted
in the here.
And I—
would close my eyes,
and wish upon
shooting stars.
I wanted out,
I wanted to leave,
go somewhere far.
I knew it would take time,
I needed things to align.
But now I know
what I’m moving toward,
what I’m working for.
I’m moving toward home.
A place, where I belong.
Maybe when I finally leave,
I’ll touch down in the Philippines
to walk Manila’s streets,
and finally be able to breathe.
This poem is not about wanting to die. It is about learning how to survive long before learning how to live.
Reflecting on survival, solitude, and the quiet strength found in shadows.
Since I Was Thirteen (Fluent in Survival) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I feel like I’m lost,
I’m wandering.
Twisted thoughts,
I’m pondering.
My demise
in a life I despise.
It’s not that I want to die—
I’m just tired
of trying to survive.
I want to be happy.
I’m alive.
But my head
is so full of dread—
every morning
a negotiation
just to get out of bed.
Body feels heavy,
limbs lagging—
everything moves
in slow-motion.
Slipping into shadows—
going home.
The light has never felt like mine.
I was born in the shadows,
raised in the shade.
Darkness has been
my mindscape—
since I was thirteen.
I learned early
how to make myself small—
how to soften my footsteps
inside my own head.
I memorized the weight of silence,
learned which thoughts were safe to keep
and which ones
needed to stay buried.
Survival became a second language,
spoken fluently,
even when no one was listening.
I say I’m alive
like it’s a defense—
like survival
should be enough.
But living
feels like something other people do
without rehearsing it first.
Closing Note
I wrote this for anyone who learned survival before they learned safety. For those who are still here, even when “alive” feels like a negotiation. You are not failing — you are fluent in something the world never taught gently.
I Just Want to Leave captures the restless, exilic energy that often pulses beneath my poetry. It is a declaration of detachment from a place that feels stifling, a yearning for freedom, and the fierce self-awareness that comes from knowing your worth and choosing to protect it. This piece resonates with anyone who has ever felt too much, too intense, or simply out of place—and serves as a reminder that leaving sometimes isn’t running away, it’s reclaiming yourself.
“I Just Want to Leave” – A neo-gothic confessional poem by Rowan Evans about yearning, exile, and reclaiming oneself.
I Just Want to Leave Poetry by Rowan Evans
They say— “You need to put yourself out there,” but I put myself out there, and nobody seems to connect with me. That’s fine—really though— ‘cause I don’t like Americans, I just want to leave.
You’re proud to be an American? Well, not me.
“If you don’t like it here, just leave.”
Did you not hear what I just said? That’s exactly what I’m tryin’ to do. If I could, I’d be gone tomorrow, boo. Yeah, I’d pull a Danny Phantom— going ghost.
I’d take a plane, or stowaway to escape. I’d cross oceans— hell, I’d swim if I had to.
They say, “be proud,” but pride tastes like poison here. I’ve got no flag, pledge no allegiance. All I’ve got— is an open wound that wants to heal… somewhere else.
It’d be— goodbye forever, and I’m never coming back.
If you just want to read more of my work, you can find it all here:[The Library of Ashes]
I’m just… sitting here trying to figure out how to put all of this into words. These poems—they’re not tidy. They’re not meant to be. They are me trying to talk to myself, to the child I was, to the person I am now, to anyone who might understand.
I’ve been writing for over twenty-two years. Twenty-two. I started when I was thirteen, barely a kid. By fourteen, I was deep into Japanese music, culture, media… then Korean, then Chinese. I lived a Japanese life in America. Movies, music, shows, rituals I made in my head—I was building a world where I felt like I belonged, even if the world around me didn’t make sense.
I was also depressed. Anxious. I felt different from everyone else, but nobody really said why. Autism wasn’t mentioned. I didn’t have the language for it. Gender identity—same thing. I didn’t feel the things “I was supposed to” as a boy. I felt disconnected. I felt unseen. I felt untethered. I still sometimes do.
I asked my parents, over and over: where are we from? Beyond the U.S., what’s our heritage? They said we were mutts. And yeah, I get it. But it left me with this gnawing emptiness—a gap I couldn’t fill. I tried to make sense of it all, but there wasn’t a clear answer.
These poems are me talking to that inner child. Roo the Poet is that child’s voice—the part of me that’s been scared, lonely, unheard, and also resilient. They are a dialogue, a witness, a reminder that even when life is overwhelming, even when the world is messy and cruel, I—we—can keep moving, keep dreaming, keep reaching for light, even when it seems impossible.
They are raw. They are messy. They carry grief, rage, confusion, hope, and the quiet fire of persistence. I’m putting them here because I need them to exist. Because I need to say: it’s okay to feel all of it. It’s okay to be broken. It’s okay to question, to rage, to cry, to laugh, to search, to not have the answers.
I hope anyone reading this feels some part of it too. The fear, the hurt, the wonder, the resilience. The poems are my way of saying: you are not alone. The child inside you is still here. The voice that whispers your truths is still here. And maybe, just maybe, we can keep walking forward together.
— Rowan Evans
The Child & The Future Poetry by Roo the Poet featuring Rowan Evans
[Roo the Poet] Tell me, have we made it? Did our dreams take flight? Do our words now dance on pages, Spilling truth in black and white?
I held the light so tightly, Afraid it’d slip away, But I kept it burning, flickering, To guide us through the grey.
[Rowan] We’re not there yet, but we’re close, Closer than we’ve ever been. And Roo, it wouldn’t be possible Without the fire you lit within.
You taught me to hold on, Even when the night grew cold. That light always casts a shadow, But both are stories to be told.
[Roo the Poet] Do we still dream in color, Like we did when we were small? Do we still believe in magic, In the rise after the fall?
Do we still whisper wishes, To the stars beyond the pane? Do we still chase the echoes, Of our past, through joy and pain?
[Rowan] We dream, Roo, oh, we dream, But now with eyes wide open. We shape the stories with steady hands, No longer lost, no longer broken.
The magic never left us, It just grew in different ways— In the strength of ink and paper, In the fire that never fades.
[Roo the Poet] Then I have no fears, no sorrow, For the path we’ve yet to tread. Because you still carry the child I was, Even as you forge ahead.
So promise me, no matter what, That light will always stay? That the shadow won’t consume us, That we won’t be led astray?
[Rowan] I promise, Roo, I swear it true, The light will always shine. Because you’re the voice that kept me strong, The heart that still beats inside mine.
So walk with me—hand in hand, Through darkness, through the dawn. For every dream we’ve yet to chase, Together, we’ll carry on.
Lost in the Why Poetry by Roo the Poet
I don’t understand why the sun feels colder, Why laughter sounds distant, like echoes in stone. They say time will heal, that pain makes us older, But I still feel small, lost and alone.
The world keeps moving, but I stand still, Feet stuck in puddles that no one else sees. I try to be strong, to bend to their will, But inside, I’m just whispering, “Please.”
Please tell me why the stars seem dimmer, Why warmth feels like a memory’s trace. Why grown-ups cry with voices that quiver, Yet smile like grief doesn’t leave stains on their face.
I reach for the hands that once held me tight, But fingers slip through, like sand in the breeze. Was I meant to lose before knowing the light? To learn that love sometimes leaves?
I hide my heart in paper-thin walls, Shielding the child I used to be. But each crack whispers, each shadow calls, That pain is the price of growing free.
I don’t understand why the sun feels colder, But I’ll carry its warmth in the way that I shine. Even if grief makes my shoulders older, I’ll still hold space for the child inside.
The Past & The Present Poetry byRoo the Poetfeaturing Rowan Evans
[Roo the Poet] Are you tired, Rowan? I see your tears, your sad eyes, but you’re still standing— a little wobbly, but you’re still standing, like a toy with no batteries, but you keep going, don’t you?
[Rowan] It’s hard, Roo. I feel like the wind keeps pushing me, and I just… bend. How do I keep going when I don’t know where I’m going?
[Roo the Poet] But you are going, right? Like a tree with roots way deep in the ground— You bend, but you don’t break. The wind can blow and blow, but you stand up, because you’re strong inside. I know you are.
[Rowan] I don’t always feel strong. I feel like I’m falling apart sometimes, like the world is too big, and I’m just too small to do anything.
[Roo the Poet] You’re not too small! You’re big and strong like the moon, even when it hides behind the clouds. It’s still there, shining real bright, even if we can’t see it. I’m like that too. I’m always here, like the moon.
[Rowan] But what if I can’t find my way back to the light? What if the pieces of me just don’t fit anymore?
[Roo the Poet] Then we make new pieces! We glue ‘em together, make a brand new picture! It’s okay to be a little broken. Everyone’s a little broken sometimes. But that doesn’t mean you’re not special.
[Rowan] I don’t know if I can be fixed, Roo. I’m too tired.
[Roo the Poet] But you CAN be fixed, Rowan! You just gotta be patient. It takes time, like putting together a puzzle. And sometimes, you have to wait for the pieces to find their place. But that’s okay— you’ll figure it out. I know you will.
[Rowan] And what about you? You always know what to say. How are you so sure that everything will be okay?
[Roo the Poet] Because I trust you, silly! You’re like a little seed that will grow into the biggest flower, even when it’s all dark and hard. I know you can do it, Rowan. You’ll bloom, I promise.
[Rowan] I don’t feel like blooming yet. I just feel stuck, like I’m caught in the mud.
[Roo the Poet] You’re not stuck! You’re just waiting, like a flower needs the rain. The sun will come, I KNOW it will. And then you’ll be all bright and pretty.
[Rowan] But what if I miss the sun? What if it doesn’t come for me?
[Roo the Poet] Then we’ll make our own sun! We can draw it, paint it, make it real big! We don’t have to wait, Rowan. We can shine all by ourselves.
[Rowan] I didn’t think I could do it alone, but you… you make me feel like I can try.
[Roo the Poet] You don’t have to do it alone. I’m right here. I’ll help you, always. I’ll be your sunshine when it’s dark.
[Rowan] Thank you for still fighting for me. Thank you for never giving up on me.
[Roo the Poet] I won’t ever give up on you, Rowan. You’re my best friend. And I’ll always be here. You’re stronger than you know. And you’re never, ever alone.
[Rowan] I think I can start believing that. I think… I think I’ll be okay.
For those who feel these questions, this fire, and this search for self, my poem ‘I Am’ continues the journey—raw, unbound, and unafraid.
Sometimes the world feels too heavy to bear, and the soul begins to dream of places it has never touched. Two paths emerge—one of quiet surrender, the other of yearning flight. These pieces explore that journey: the weight of what we leave behind, and the promise of somewhere beyond the horizon.
Longing for distant shores, finding peace beyond what I’ve known.
Escape Route Poetry by Rowan Evans
I want to step off this soil, feel its weight fade from my bones, like a chain I never asked for, a history I never owned.
I long for skies not heavy with judgment, for oceans that don’t pull me under, to breathe air not tainted with promises that leave the soul shattered, like glass beneath tired feet.
I would trade the land of endless noise, the echoes of hollow dreams, for silence— for the quiet of somewhere far, where the world doesn’t scream but whispers, and I can finally exhale.
Somewhere else, where home isn’t built on brokenness, where freedom isn’t borrowed but earned.
Tropical Longing Poetry by Rowan Evans
I wake up each day, mind focused on the journey ahead— I’m putting plans in motion, to cross oceans, to leave behind this land of plenty, where many have none. I long for the land of white sand beaches and palm trees, I long for a tropical sun.
Life upon a different shore, it’s calling me. And I think about it longingly. Get me out of here, get me to where my heart feels at peace. Instead of here, where I feel like I’m pulling myself in two, stretched thin between what is and what could be— like waves crashing against jagged rocks, each one breaking off a piece of me.
The Philippines— a dream painted in shades of emerald and gold, the promise of solace in the whisper of the sea. But here, the air is heavy, clouds hang low with burdens of the past, while I yearn for a sky unshackled, where the horizon stretches far beyond the limits of what I know.
Palm trees sway like dancers, and the sun burns bright, calling me to walk barefoot, where my soul can feel the sand, and my heart can finally breathe. But for now, I’m tethered to this place, this world where the weight is felt with every step I take.
Still, I hold onto the dream, the image of an island beyond the mist— where peace resides, and I can shed the pull of this dual life, and rest beneath the warmth of the tropical sky.
Double-Feature Outro
And so we leave, if only in words—for a moment, we escape the weight of the world. We walk toward distant shores, toward air untainted and skies unbound, carrying pieces of ourselves we thought were lost. Between the tethered and the free, we find the space to breathe, to dream, to simply be.
Airborne Confessions: Terminal Velocity leans into image and impulse: a visceral, metaphorical test of feeling. This poem is an exploration of risk and exposed hunger — not a plan, but a probe into the place where shame, expectation, and longing meet.
Read gently.
— Rowan Evans
✦ Content & Care Advisory ✦
These words soar through the raw heights of fear, despair, and the fragile pulse of the human heart. They speak of risks taken, gravity felt, and the weight of unseen burdens. Read only if you feel steady, and remember—your safety, your breath, your life are sacred. Even in the fall, you are not alone in the dark.
Falling into the raw pulse of fear and freedom—Airborne Confessions: Terminal Velocity.
Airborne Confessions: Terminal Velocity Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’ve thought about bungee jumping without the chord, skydiving with no parachute on board. I want to kiss the earth at terminal velocity, to feel fear rip me open and call it alive.
Is it you? Is it my family? The weight of expectations or shame I swallow daily? I don’t know. I just know I want to fling myself off this ledge of everything, naked, screaming, and see if I survive my own gravity.
I am trembling. I am exposed. I am undone—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 