Tag: self reflection poem

  • Author’s Note

    This piece sits at the intersection of introspection and escape.

    Writing has always been where I process things–where thoughts loop, where patterns reveal themselves, where I can be honest in ways that don’t always come out loud.

    But there’s also a point where reflection turns into restlessness.

    Where you stop asking why you feel this way and start asking where do I go from here?

    The coordinates in this piece are real.

    Not just as a location–but as intention.

    A direction.
    A choice.

    Because sometimes the only way to break the loop
    is to move.

    Rowan Evans


    Person overlooking a city skyline at night with faint geographic coordinates in the sky, symbolizing introspection and escape.
    Sometimes the way forward isn’t a thought—it’s a direction.

    Coordinates of Escape
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m in my head,
    all the time—
    introspective
    when I rhyme.

    I’m honest,
    turn the page
    into a confessional.

    The page listens
    when I speak in ink—
    poetry captures the dance
    at the brink,
    as thoughts loop—
    the thoughts loops,
    repeating what I think.

    It makes me feel weak—
    the way my thoughts
    get under my own skin.
    Why am I so fixated on the end,
    when really I want to restart—
    reset, begin again…

    Two feet on distant shores,
    eyes focused—looking forward,
    toward the future—
    with my back to the past.

    I’ll touchdown—
    121 degrees East
    of the Prime Meridian,
    14 degrees and 36 minutes
    North of the Equator.

    If you know where that is,
    you’ll know where to find me.

    It’s goodbye,
    no see you later.


    Journey into the Hexverse!

    [The Voice in the Haze]
    A wandering dream, a voice that feels like memory, and a moment where everything quiets just enough to be found.

    [Right Behind My Eyes]
    A raw and introspective poem exploring dissociation, emotional distance, and the grounding power of love. Right Behind My Eyes captures the feeling of watching your life from afar—and what keeps you from disappearing completely.

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

  • Author’s Note

    Not Begging, Just Tired lives in that quiet space between breaking and continuing.

    This piece isn’t about giving up–it’s about what comes after the questions, when certainty fades and all that’s left  is awareness. It explores the tension between faith and doubt, between the voice that offers an easy escape and the part of us that still chooses to struggle, to grow, to stay human.

    There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from weakness, but from enduring–feeling everything, questioning everything, and still moving forward without clear answers. This poem sits in that space.

    It’s not a resolution.
    It’s not a victory.

    It’s a choice.

    To stay.

    Rowan Evans


    A person kneeling in a dim room with soft light behind them, symbolizing emotional exhaustion and quiet resilience.
    Not begging—just tired, and still choosing to stay.

    Not Begging, Just Tired
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m on my knees again,
    begging—please again.
    My brain freezes,
    and I get lost within.

    Confronting sins.

    Am I who I want to be?
    I mean it—truthfully.
    Am I exactly who I want to be,
    or just who I became?

    And the devil whispers…

    He speaks to me,
    I hear him clearly.
    He says he’ll set me free—
    no need to beg or plead.

    But I don’t want ease.
    It’s the challenge I need.

    What comes easily
    is never worth the cost.
    What’s a dream
    if it means
    you lose your humanity?

    God… if you’re listening—
    can you hear me whispering?

    I’m not begging,
    I won’t plead,
    but I’m getting tired
    of having to bleed.

    I’ll be honest—
    I’m not sure if you’re real,
    but I think I used to feel you
    when things got too heavy,
    when life felt a little too rough.

    Back before
    life kind of fucked me up.

    There’s always
    a before and an after.
    Before—there was laughter.

    But that was last chapter.
    This one’s been
    a little too heavy.

    To leave?
    I’ve been a little too ready.

    I don’t mean
    leave permanently—
    I just want to be
    in a different scene.

    Somewhere I don’t feel
    at home through a screen.

    Have you felt
    out of place
    in a place
    that was supposed
    to be your home?

    And still—
    you felt alone…

    Not in a way
    that filled you with despair,
    but in a way
    that made you more aware.

    I’m not begging—
    just tired…
    and still choosing
    to stay.


    [Calculating Profits]
    Calculating Profits (Ledger of Lives) is a raw anti-war poem confronting how modern conflict is often reduced to statistics, strategy, and spectacle. Through stark imagery and direct language, Rowan Evans challenges the “us vs. them” narrative and reminds readers that behind every number in war’s ledger is a human life.

  • Author’s Note

    I’ve learned that when I care deeply, I sometimes pull back instead of leaning in. This piece is me noticing that reflex in real time – and choosing not to let it define me.

    Lingering isn’t the same as being lost. And retreating isn’t the same as running.

    Rowan Evans


    Silhouette of a person standing at the edge of a quiet shoreline at dusk, symbolizing reflection and emotional retreat.
    Not lost. Just lingering — and choosing to return.

    Lingering, Not Lost (Mental Retreat)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I retreat—
    when my mind
    gets messy.
    I repeat—
    thoughts on loop,
    spinning, hula-hoop.

    Saying I’m fine,
    when I know I’m not—
    I slip deeper
    into my thoughts.
    I sit in the dark
    inside my mind,
    not even trying
    to find
    a way out.

    I’m not trapped,
    I’m lingering.
    Haunting
    my own mind.
    Fighting
    my own misconceptions.
    Twisting secrets
    into confessions.

    Every thought—
    You.
    Who keeps me
    tethered,
    gripping reality tight
    so I don’t slip
    and lose my mind
    tonight?
    You.

    And it’s nothing you do.
    It’s just you, being you.

    So this descent
    is never permanent,
    but it leaves cracks—
    I know it does.

    Damage that can’t be undone—
    Only repaired
    slowly,
    with patience.
    With care.
    With staying.

    So I’ll try—
    I’ll try and pull myself free
    from this mental retreat.


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