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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: self-reflection

  • Director’s Commentary | A Meta Poem About Writing, Metaphors & Creative Habits

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Every writer has a toolbox.

    Mine just happens to contain an alarming number of moons, oceans, ravens, comic book characters, sports references, cartoons, and entirely too much ink.

    People occasionally notice that I return to the same imagery over and over again. They’re right.

    The funny thing is…

    I’m usually the first person to notice.

    This poem came from imagining an overly critical director sitting just off-camera, pausing every scene to point out my habits.

    “Another moon?”

    “Really? The ocean again?”

    “We’re doing ravens today?”

    It’s the internal voice every creative person develops after making enough work. The one that starts recognizing your patterns before anyone else does.

    Sometimes it’s helpful.

    Sometimes it’s insufferable.

    The joke, of course, is that the director isn’t entirely wrong.

    I do write about the moon a lot.

    I do return to oceans, tides, dreams, and ravens.

    I do compare things to comic books, cartoons, sports, horror movies, and whatever random piece of culture my brain decides belongs in the poem that day.

    Because those things aren’t decorations.

    They’re the language my mind naturally speaks.

    The final section—”Music—10/10. No Notes.”—is probably the closest thing to surrender in the entire poem.

    Apparently my inner critic has limits.

    Music gets a free pass.

    Everything else is fair game.

    Including me.

    — Rowan Evans

    A writer's desk covered with poetry pages, recurring symbols like moons and oceans, and film director notes critiquing the creative process.
    “Every writer has recurring motifs. Mine just happened to get their own director’s commentary.” 🎬🌙✍️

    Director’s Commentary
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    The Moon—

    Here we go again,
    another moon metaphor.

    What is it this time?

    The moon shimmering
    above the bay?
    A stand in for her beauty—

    Ocean—

    My favorite metaphor.

    The one I’ve used
    thousands upon thousands
    of times before—
    written in thousands of lines,
    in a thousand different rhymes.

    Hyperbole.

    The Tide—

    Yes, there it is—
    the final piece
    of this overused metaphor chain,
    you say it’s different
    but it’s all the same.

    Same moon.
    over the same bay,
    and it shimmers
    in the same way.

    It’s almost like the moon,
    ocean, and tide
    are all that exist
    inside that little mind.

    Ravens—

    So spooky.
    So gothic.

    You write ravens
    like you shop
    exclusively at Hot Topic.

    They’re messengers.
    They witness.
    And once upon a time
    you even made them a centerpiece.

    You took that way too seriously
    back in your “modern-day Poe” era.

    A modern-day Poe?

    Ridiculous.

    Sports—

    You don’t even watch those.

    Why are you writing
    metaphors for the bros?

    You think you’re great?
    Yeah, you’re The Babe.
    23 years and a Jordan joke—
    okay, Shohei.

    Random Cartoon Reference—

    Which character are you
    going to grab this time?

    Which bit of nostalgia
    are you going to try
    and exploit?

    Random references,
    litter the page—
    Powerpuff Girls,
    Doug and Dexter.

    So what’s next?

    Something more obscure,
    or more mainstream?

    Comic Books—

    Tropes.

    Superheroes and capes.

    Random character grab,
    used in a metaphor
    that barely makes sense—

    like Bane
    for line breaks?
    What the “#%@$”
    was that?

    I’ll give you
    Two-Face for fakes
    and snakes, because
    that one makes sense.

    Music—

    10/10.
    No Notes.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Pointing Me Home]
    The final poem in the No Metaphor Left Behind trilogy explores dreams, hope, and belonging. Through moonlight, ocean tides, and quiet conversation, Pointing Me Home reflects on carrying hope long before reaching the place you call home.

    [Chemical X]
    Chemical X explores the rapid, associative way one creative mind moves—from cartoons to sports, comic books to music—revealing that inspiration isn’t linear, but a collision of memory, humor, rhythm, and intuition.

    [Crossing the Sea]
    A deeply personal poem about relocation, longing, and the realization that some truths naturally arrive through metaphor—even when we try to leave it behind.

    [Danny Phantom Theology]
    What begins as a metaphor borrowed from a childhood cartoon becomes something deeper: a reflection on existing between survival and possibility, exhaustion and hope, the life we have and the life we long for. Danny Phantom Theology explores what it means to keep moving toward a future that feels worth living.

    [Frankenstein’s Monster (and I’m the Doctor)]
    Some poems are built to make a point. Others are built to reveal the mechanism. Frankenstein’s Monster (and I’m the Doctor) explores associative thinking, creative chaos, and the strange process of stitching disconnected ideas into something alive.

    [Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)]
    A moonlit shoreline, a rowboat full of ducks, a piggybank with no cents, and a confession hidden in plain sight. Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3) explores how humor, wordplay, and absurdity can become a side door to vulnerability when the truth feels too difficult to say directly.

    [A Heart That Echoes in Another Language]
    A poetic journey through music across Japan, Korea, China, and the Philippines, exploring how sound becomes identity, memory, and emotional geography.

    [Global Takeover]
    What if home isn’t a place—but something you build from the music you love? Global Takeover blends sound, culture, and identity into one borderless space.

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

  • Translating What I Feel | A Poem About Creativity, Emotion, and the Writing Process

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem began with an image.

    Not a line. Not a metaphor.

    An image.

    A single figure standing alone, staring into the distance like the opening shot of a film.

    At first, the poem exists entirely outside the body. The speaker is observed rather than understood. We see the wind. The trees. The dirt beneath their feet. We hear a voice describing loneliness from a distance.

    Then the question arrives:

    “Is that the truth or the depression talking?”

    For me, that’s the moment the camera moves.

    The poem stops observing the speaker and starts inhabiting them.

    Everything before that question is external.

    Everything after it is internal.

    The scenery gives way to self-examination. The loneliness becomes less important than the act of interrogating it. The poem begins pulling apart its own construction, examining how emotions become images and how images eventually become language.

    In many ways, this piece accidentally became a poem about my entire creative process.

    I’ve spent twenty-three years translating feelings into words.

    Not just the dramatic emotions. Not just love, grief, or heartbreak.

    Everything.

    The strange moments. The passing thoughts. The questions that linger longer than they should.

    The title came from that realization.

    Because that’s what poetry has always felt like to me.

    Translation.

    An emotion enters one side of the mind.

    An image emerges from the other.

    And somewhere in between, a poem happens.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary poet stands by the shoreline at dusk as ink transforms into waves and moonlight, symbolizing emotions becoming poetry.
    Every poem begins as a feeling before it becomes a language.

    Translating What I Feel
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand, staring into the distance,
    alone in this instance—
    it’s just me and the breeze,
    running through the trees.

    I can feel cold dirt and stone
    beneath my feet.

    Wind brushes skin,
    feather-light
    like finger tips—
    it reminds me
    of how alone I am.

    Is that the truth
    or the depression talking?

    Because sometimes
    I feel alone
    when there are people
    around me.

    That last stanza
    moved like the tide.

    A long line—
    followed by one shorter,
    then longer again.

    Even when I don’t say it,
    the ocean imagery arrives.
    I don’t even have to try—
    it just pours out of me,
    like a dam breaking.

    Everything held back,
    rushes forth as the pen
    hits the page.

    You get the opening lines,
    that’s where the truth slips.
    Mid-stanza
    is where the truth sits.
    Then one or two lines
    to really make the truth hit.

    You see—
    this is the creative side of me.
    I feel something then translate it
    inside of me,
    from data to image
    then I spit it in ink on the page.

    I’ve spent 23 years
    translating what I feel—
    love, loneliness and rage…

    happiness and pain.

    Two sides of the coin,
    they’re different
    but the same.

    So there I stood…

    staring into the distance,
    unsure if I was alone in that instance—
    it was just me and the thoughts
    running through my mind.

    Slowly being translated
    into poetic lines.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Where Music Becomes Weather]
    Some songs feel like storms. Others feel like shelter. Where Music Becomes Weather explores how music shapes emotion, memory, and the landscapes we carry within us.

    [Returning to My Bones]
    Some dreams fade the moment we wake. Others leave behind emotions that linger long after reality returns. Returning to My Bones explores the strange grief of leaving a dream that felt real enough to matter.

    [Recognizes Home]
    A free-verse poem exploring the difference between love as dependency and love as choice. It challenges the idea that love must be need-based, instead centering the quiet strength of choosing someone while still remaining whole on your own.

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

  • For the World to Remember Me Again | A Poem About Headaches, Disconnection & Finding Focus

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece began exactly where it sounds like it did:

    With a headache.

    Not a dramatic one. Not a poetic one.

    Just the kind that makes it difficult to focus. The kind where every sound feels a little sharper than it should. The kind where your thoughts stop moving cleanly and start dragging their feet.

    I sat down intending to write about that feeling.

    But somewhere along the way, the poem became less about pain and more about disconnection.

    Because what struck me wasn’t the headache itself.

    It was the strange sensation of feeling slightly removed from the world around me.

    Like reality had taken half a step backward.

    Like I was still present, but not entirely anchored.

    The images of echoes, warped thoughts, blurred edges, and slipping focus all came from trying to describe that experience as honestly as possible.

    What surprised me was where the poem ended.

    I started by writing about a physical sensation.

    I ended by writing about recognition.

    About the desire to feel fully present again.

    To feel connected to yourself, your surroundings, and the moment you’re living in.

    The title comes from that realization.

    Because sometimes discomfort doesn’t make us feel absent.

    It makes us feel forgotten.

    Not by other people, necessarily, but by the world itself.

    As though we’ve drifted just far enough away from ourselves to notice the distance.

    And all we can do is sit quietly and wait for clarity to return.

    For the world to remember us again.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person sitting quietly with a headache as the world around them blurs and fades into soft echoes of light.
    “Some days it isn’t pain that feels overwhelming—it’s the distance between yourself and the world around you.”

    For the World to Remember Me Again
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve got a headache,
    can’t see straight—
    vision blurring at the edges.

    It’s the kind of headache—
    where even the silence
    is loud.

    And I sit in it,
    this ringing hush,
    like the world has stepped back
    and left me echoing alone.

    It’s like—
    every sound echoes
    in a cavernous skull.

    Like my thoughts are ricocheting
    off the walls of me,
    coming back warped,
    a little less mine
    each time—

    the rhythm
    loses a little bit
    of its rhyme.

    Every pulse is thunder,
    every heartbeat a warning—
    a storm gathering
    behind my eyes.

    I try to focus,
    but the edges keep slipping—
    like my mind is smudging
    under its own weight.

    So I breathe,
    slow and deliberate,
    hoping the world will settle
    back into focus—

    or at least…

    stop slipping away.

    And I wait,
    quiet as I can,
    for the world
    to remember me again.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Before My Feet Touch the Floor]
    What happens when your dreams feel more real than your waking life? Before My Feet Touch the Floor explores the strange grief of waking up, the lingering memory of dream selves, and the quiet question of which version of us is truly real.

    [Recognizes Home]
    A free-verse poem exploring the difference between love as dependency and love as choice. It challenges the idea that love must be need-based, instead centering the quiet strength of choosing someone while still remaining whole on your own.

    [Monster Theology]
    What if the monsters under the bed weren’t monsters at all? Monster Theology explores difference, belonging, and the human tendency to fear what we don’t understand through a conversation with the creatures we’ve spent our lives imagining.

    [Not Rebuilding You]
    A poem about love as an act of presence rather than rescue. Through construction imagery, Not Rebuilding You explores trust, devotion, emotional safety, and the quiet work of building a foundation strong enough for healing to grow.

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

  • Reading the Sky | A Poem About Depression, Healing, and Emotional Cycles

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    People sometimes talk about depression like it’s constant sadness.

    For me, it’s rarely that simple.

    Sometimes it’s pressure. Sometimes it’s exhaustion. Sometimes it’s numbness so quiet you don’t notice how deep you’ve sunk until something shifts and suddenly you can breathe again.

    That’s where this piece came from.

    Not from a dramatic breakthrough— just a morning where the weight felt lighter.

    And when you’ve carried storms inside yourself for long enough, even small moments of relief can feel almost unreal.

    But one of the hardest things to learn about living with depression is this:

    good days don’t erase bad ones, and bad days don’t erase good ones.

    The storm passing doesn’t mean it’ll never return.

    It means you survived it long enough to recognize clear skies when they arrive.

    That’s what Reading the Sky became about for me.

    Not curing the storm. Not defeating it.

    Just learning its patterns. Learning when the pressure shifts. Learning how to keep breathing through both the thunder and the quiet afterward.

    And maybe most importantly—

    allowing yourself to enjoy the clean air when it finally comes.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person stands beneath clearing storm clouds as sunlight begins breaking through the sky after rain.
    Some victories are simply learning how to breathe again after the storm passes.

    Reading the Sky
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I woke today
    feeling different—

    like everything
    had changed,
    in an instant.

    Like the storm inside
    had finally gone silent.
    The winds had died,
    but I was alive.

    Smile on my face—
    for the first time,
    didn’t feel out of place.

    I could still see
    lightning on the edges
    of my perception—
    feel the rumble
    of thunder
    in my chest.

    It was softer now.

    This storm had passed,
    but another
    would surely come.

    It’s a cycle—

    and these things
    have a season.

    The storms?

    They come
    and go.

    That’ll never change.

    It’s learning
    to read the sky,
    to feel
    when the pressure shifts.

    Now let me say this plain…

    I’ve got depression.

    It lives in my chest,
    waiting to teach me lessons.

    It’s a storm
    I’ve weathered—

    more than
    any one person should.

    That’s what makes
    days like these—
    feel like the cleanest air
    I’ve ever breathed.

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

  • Finish What You Started – A Poem About Transformation, Shadows, and Rebirth

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some versions of yourself do not disappear quietly.

    Even after you’ve changed, even after you’ve tried to move forward, there are still old names, old mistakes, old selves that follow behind you like shadows.

    This piece came from thinking about transformation—not as a clean rebirth, but as something heavier.

    Something witnessed.

    The ravens in this poem aren’t meant to be enemies. They’re observers. Keepers of memory. Symbols of the parts of ourselves we can’t fully erase, no matter how badly we want to leave them behind.

    And the fire isn’t destruction alone.

    It’s momentum.

    Because sometimes growth doesn’t happen when you escape the past.

    Sometimes it happens when you finally walk through it.

    — Rowan Evans

    Figure walking through burning temple ruins beneath watching ravens
    The only way out is through.

    Finish What You Started
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Strike the match
    and light the flame—

    watch the past
    decay and end.

    I walk through temples
    while the ravens watch me.

    I feel their eyes upon me,
    following—

    every movement
    traced.

    They tally every sin I’ve carried,
    every name I’ve buried,
    every version of myself
    I tried to outgrow.

    They know the weight
    I drag behind me,
    the shadows I pretend
    I’ve already outrun.

    The flame behind me grows,
    licking at the stone,
    urging me forward—

    a reminder
    that the only way out
    is through.

    The ravens
    do not warn me back.

    They only tilt their heads,
    as if to say—

    go on…

    finish
    what you started.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    Previous:
    [The Shadow and the Spark]
    A psychologically charged free verse poem using Mortal Kombat imagery to explore anxiety, depression, identity, and the realization that survival matters more than victory.

    [East Knows My Name]
    A deeply introspective poem about emotional displacement, cultural disconnect, and feeling spiritually drawn toward a place far from where you were born.

    [Out of Sync]
    A reflective free verse poem about emotional displacement, shifting sleep cycles, and feeling spiritually drawn toward another side of the world.

    Upcoming:
    [Altars and Roses]
    A gothic free verse poem about poetic identity, recurring symbolism, devotion, and the quiet humanity beneath dramatic imagery.

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

  • When the Devil Speaks, I Listen – A Poem About Inner Voice and Self-Reflection

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece started with a simple idea—listening to something you’re told to ignore.

    But the more I sat with it, the less it felt like something external.

    There’s a voice you develop after spending enough time with your own thoughts. One that understands where you’ve been, what you’ve survived, and what you’ve learned to carry.

    It doesn’t filter itself the way you do.

    It doesn’t soften the truth.

    And that’s what makes it uncomfortable.

    We’re taught to silence that voice. To treat it like something separate, something dangerous.

    But sometimes, it’s not the enemy.

    Sometimes, it’s just you—without hesitation.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person writing in dim light with a shadow reflection symbolizing inner thoughts and darker self
    Some voices don’t lie. That’s why they’re hard to hear.

    When the Devil Speaks, I Listen
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I listen—
    when the devil talks,
    because he knows
    the paths I’ve walked.

    I’ve slept
    where shadows crept,
    made my bed in crypts.

    I’ve walked through rooms
    that felt like tombs—
    bled ink on pages,
    translated hurt
    into words.

    I listen
    when the devil talks,

    because I recognize
    he’s walked
    the same paths I’ve walked.

    He’s seen the places
    I’ve laid my head,
    the crypts
    I made home.

    He’s read the pages—
    stained
    with crimson ink.

    So yes—
    I listen,

    because I recognize
    the voice
    sounds like mine—
    just older,
    and less afraid to say it.

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

  • Of No Single Nation – A Poem About Identity, Belonging, and Life Beyond Borders

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’ve never felt fully defined by where I’m from.

    Not in a rejection of place—but in a quiet understanding that identity doesn’t always root itself in geography. That sometimes, belonging isn’t tied to land, language, or nationality… but to connection.

    To the people who make you feel understood. To the moments where distance doesn’t matter as much as recognition.

    This piece comes from that perspective.

    From existing in between—carrying pieces of different cultures, different influences, different ways of seeing the world, without feeling the need to choose just one.

    Not unrooted.

    Just… rooted differently.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing between blended landscapes with fading borders symbolizing identity beyond nations.
    Some people aren’t rooted in places—they’re rooted in connection.

    Of No Single Nation
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I am of global mind—
    I claim no nation as mine.

    My empathy stretches
    beyond borders,
    past the fences people build
    to feel safe.

    Because I learned early
    that home is not a place
    you inherit.

    It’s something you find
    in the people
    who make your chest
    feel less heavy.

    I was never meant
    to fit inside a flag.

    My heart speaks
    in borrowed languages,
    my belonging scattered
    across timelines
    and skylines
    I haven’t touched yet.

    I will continue
    reaching for anyone
    who feels unrooted,
    unclaimed,
    unbelonging.

    Maybe that’s why
    I recognize myself
    in strangers
    more than in the soil
    I was born on.

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

  • Lost the Plot | A Poem About Identity, Control, and Rewritten Stories

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a strange kind of disorientation that comes from feeling like your life should make sense… but doesn’t.

    Like you missed a chapter.
    Or something important got cut before you ever had the chance to understand it.

    Lost the Plot leans into that feeling–but not just on a personal level. It questions what happens when the narrative itself isn’t entirely yours. When the direction shifts, not because it should… but because something behind the scenes decided it needed to.

    We’re often told that confusion is internal.
    That if we feel lost, it’s something we need to fix within ourselves.

    But what if part of that feeling comes from the story constantly being rewritten?
    From forces we don’t see, shaping outcomes we’re expected to accept?

    This piece sits in that space–between personal disconnection and a growing awareness the “plot” might not be as natural as it seems.

    Sometimes it’s not that you lost your way.

    Sometimes… the story changed without you.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person standing on a broken film set with scattered reels and a looming studio above, symbolizing loss of identity and control
    What happens when the story isn’t yours anymore?

    Lost the Plot
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I feel like I’ve been
    getting lost a lot lately.

    Like I’ve forgotten
    who I was,
    who I am—
    who I was becoming.

    I’m feeling like
    I’ve lost the plot,
    like the studio
    lost the reel
    that we shot.

    No longer
    can I see
    where I began.

    We got cancelled
    before we
    got going.

    We never saw an end.

    But we weren’t
    cancelled because of
    interest.

    We were cancelled
    because the studio
    got scared.

    Ratings were good.
    The audience cared.

    But they cared too much.

    It was causing
    connection,
    so the studio
    had to change
    direction.

    The studio,
    needs the divide—
    keeps people
    scared and wide-eyed.

    So there’s always
    someone—
    to point to,
    to name as the bad guy.

    The boogeyman.

    So we look to the stars,
    as if they could solve
    the problems.

    As if it wasn’t
    the studio—
    the writer’s room
    behind every decision.

    It was them—

    in the writer’s room,
    rewriting endings
    we never got to reach.

    Ratings be damned.

    The show goes on—

    we just don’t
    exist in it anymore.

    Journey into the Hexverse!

    [Another Fire]
    A powerful poem exploring global chaos, systemic inequality, and emotional exhaustion in a world where conflict grows faster than it can be understood.

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

  • Standing Between Us | Identity & Love Poem

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    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

    Multiple versions of a person standing in a dim surreal room with a distant glowing figure symbolizing identity and connection
    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.

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

  • Same Sky – A Poem About Distance, Longing, and Connection

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Same Sky sits in the space between distance and closeness.

    It’s about the kind of connection that feels real, even when it isn’t physically present. The kind that inspires growth, while also bringing fear to the surface.

    There’s a vulnerability in wanting someone–not just near you, but in your world. In admitting that their presence matters, even without defining what that presence is.

    At its core, this piece isn’t about certainty.

    It’s about longing.

    The quiet, persistent kind–
    that simply wants someone here.

    — Rowan Evans

    Two people far apart looking up at the same star-filled sky, symbolizing longing and connection
    Different places. Same sky.

    Same Sky
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Don’t take it personally,
    when I retreat—
    disappear inside of me.
    I’m reflecting—
    is this something
    I need protecting from?

    These feelings
    that I’m feeling,
    they scare me.

    It’s terrifying,
    sometimes—
    the way you
    make me feel.

    The way I want to change myself,
    not because you asked me to—
    because you inspire me,
    to be better than I was
    the day before.

    So I look to the heavens
    with feet planted,
    connected to the surface
    of the planet.
    Feet, the roots,
    grounding me.

    Even if I don’t feel
    rooted to the ground
    beneath.

    Eyes on the stars,
    mapping scars
    traced from afar.

    Ocean’s edge,
    is the reminder
    of the—

    Through the waves,
    I’d swim.

    I’d leave behind
    my life and everything
    I’ve ever known.

    It’s an internal insistence,
    to close the distance.
    A longing to stand under
    the same stars,
    in the same sky
    on the same night.

    To be able to look over,
    to know you’re near.
    Friend or more,
    I don’t care.

    I just…

    I want you there.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [To Whom It May Concern…] (3/20)

    A raw exploration of vulnerability, fear, and self-sabotage—this poem captures the struggle between wanting to be seen and the instinct to hide.

    [Weathered] (3/21)

    A deeply introspective poem about confronting fear, breaking patterns, and choosing to stand in the storm instead of running from it.

    [Same Room (Emotionally)] (3/22)

    Can you miss someone you’ve never met? This poem explores emotional connection beyond physical distance and what it means to truly feel seen.

    [No Parachute] (3/23)

    A poetic reflection on falling in love without hesitation—raw, uncertain, and without a safety net.

    [When I Started to Fall for You] (3/24)

    A lyrical exploration of love’s intensity—how connection grows, transforms, and reshapes the way we experience the world.

    [Bad Habit] (3/25)

    A powerful reflection on repetitive thought patterns, emotional loops, and the moment of realizing you’re stuck inside your own mind.

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