Tag: spoken word style

  • Author’s Note

    Depression isn’t always loud.

    Sometimes it doesn’t look like darkness at all–it looks like dimming.
    Like the light is still there… just harder to feel.

    This piece came from that space.

    From trying to move through the fog, to function, to follow advice that makes sense in theory–but doesn’t quite reach the place you’re actually in.

    And in the middle of that, realizing something else:

    that sometimes, it isn’t the sun that grounds you–it’s a person.

    The way they speak.
    The way they exist in your thoughts.
    The way they bring you back to yourself, even when you feel lost.

    This poem is about that contrast–
    between external light and internal connection.

    And about finally saying something
    that’s been held back for too long.

    Rowan Evans


    Person standing under a grey sky with a distant glowing figure representing love and emotional light
    Even when the world fades to grey—
    some people still feel like light.

    I Love You (Even in the Grey)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I used to think depression
    was only the dark days,
    but now I see it
    as the dim rays—
    where the sun’s still up,
    but the sky turns grey.

    My mind fogs,
    and I get lost—
    following the rumble
    of thunder,
    as I stumble
    my way through.

    Pushing through thoughts,
    endless.
    Fighting my own mind,
    relentless.

    “Get some sun”, they say—
    it’ll help you,
    you’ll feel better if you do.

    But what’s the sun
    when I miss
    your warmth?

    And what’s the sun
    compared to the light
    from your smile?

    You see—
    when my thoughts
    get loud,
    I use the echo
    of your voice
    to drown them out.

    You’re something
    that centers me.
    You remind me
    where my feet should be—
    firmly planted.

    Even without roots here.

    So even when
    I stay lost,
    you stay
    in my thoughts.

    And every prayer I pray…

    Like when I prayed for strength,
    so I can plainly say…

    I love you.

    Now—
    I’ve bitten my tongue
    long enough.
    So I’ll say it again
    to make up for time lost.

    I love you—
    and I mean it.


    Journey into the Hexverse!

    [To Whom It May Concern…]
    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]
    A deeply introspective poem about confronting fear, breaking patterns, and choosing to stand in the storm instead of running from it.

    [The Mind’s Winter]
    This piece wasn’t planned. It’s a real-time reflection on emotional withdrawal, overthinking, and the distance that can grow when something matters too much… ending with a simple truth: I miss you.

    [Same Room (Emotionally)]
    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]
    A poetic reflection on falling in love without hesitation—raw, uncertain, and without a safety net.

    [When I Started to Fall for You]
    A lyrical exploration of love’s intensity—how connection grows, transforms, and reshapes the way we experience the world.

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

    [Same Sky]
    A poetic meditation on longing, distance, and the quiet desire to share the same space—even when worlds apart.

    [Can’t Tell the Difference]
    A reflective poem about the blurred line between dreams and reality, where memory, longing, and love intertwine until the difference no longer feels clear.

    [Standing Between Us]
    A room filled with every version of yourself—past, present, and possible. This poem explores the space between identity and connection, where becoming who you are and reaching for someone else begin to feel like the same act.

    [Beneath the Surface]
    A poem about wanting more than surface-level connection—seeking the truth, the scars, and the quiet battles that shape who we are.

    [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.

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

  • Author’s Note

    There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from paying attention.

    Not just to your own life–but to the world as a whole. The patterns. The repetition. The way the same problems resurface, louder each time, while the people most affected are the ones with the least control over any of it.

    Another Fire comes from that place.

    It’s not a solution. It’s not even an attempt to be balanced.

    It’s a reaction–to the feeling that everything is happening all at once, that crises stack faster than they can be addressed, and that somewhere along the way, empathy gets lost in the noise.

    At its core, this piece questions something simple, but uncomfortable:

    How did we get to a point where it’s easier to see each other as enemies… than to question the systems that put us in conflict to begin with?

    This isn’t about having all the answers.

    It’s about refusing to look away.

    Rowan Evans


    Person watching a city with multiple fires burning, symbolizing global chaos and systemic conflict
    While we burn, someone else decides where the fire spreads.

    Another Fire
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been lost
    for a while now—
    eyes locked on the world.

    I’m just wondering how…
    how did we let it
    get like this?

    It’s a mess,
    everyone’s stressed—
    except the billionaires.

    Stacking money,
    sitting higher than fear.

    Profits rise
    as civilians die.

    And everywhere we look…
    another fire.

    We can’t tackle one problem,
    before five more pop up.
    It’s like we’re frozen—stuck.

    Half the population seems fine with it,
    the rest of us screaming,
    what the fuck?

    The whole world’s running out of luck.

    It’s like it’s designed
    to slowly chip away—
    grip, rip, strip away
    your humanity.

    Driving us straight
    into insanity.

    Because it’s insane to me—
    how we can look
    at another human being
    and see an enemy.

    When the only real enemy
    isn’t standing across from us—

    but above us.

    Deciding
    who fights,
    and who dies.


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

  • This wasn’t planned as part of the current sequence.
    Some things just need to be written–and shared–when they happen.

    Author’s Note

    There are patterns we don’t always notice until we’ve lived them more than once.

    The same thoughts.
    The same timing.
    The same quiet retreat inward.

    The Mind’s Winter comes from recognizing one of those cycles in real time–watching myself disappear into my own head, knowing it’s happening, and not always knowing how to stop it.

    It’s strange, being both the one experiencing something and the one observing it. To understand the “why,” but still feel pulled into it anyway.

    This piece isn’t about solving that pattern.

    It’s about naming it.

    About acknowledging the way overwhelm can turn inward, how distance can grow even when you don’t want it to, and how sometimes the things that matter most are the very things that scare us into retreat.

    And maybe, in recognizing the cycle…

    there’s a chance to break it.

    Rowan Evans


    A lone figure stands in a quiet winter landscape, surrounded by bare trees and falling snow, symbolizing emotional withdrawal and introspection.
    Sometimes the cold isn’t outside—it’s the space we retreat into when everything becomes too much.

    The Mind’s Winter
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    February 8th, 2026—
    I got sick again.
    It happens every year
    like clockwork.
    It starts with the headache,
    caused by being overwhelmed.

    It starts slowly,
    then snowballs
    into more.

    You see, this period of time—
    it usually comes after
    what I tend to call
    the mind’s winter.

    I slip into a deep void
    of thought.

    January 8th…
    that’s the date.

    That’s when I drift inside.
    I get lost in my mind,
    and I stay there—
    one month—I’m gone.
    Lost in thought.

    One month
    leading up to my “big day,”
    the one they say
    should celebrate me.

    But I don’t see it that way.
    It’s just another day.

    And usually,
    I bounce back.
    It’s quick…

    but this?

    This feels like an attack—
    one month in my head,
    two weeks sick and then?

    I broke my glasses—
    vision—
    I lost access.

    And the longer I’m gone,
    the more I pull away,
    even as I—

    want to stay.

    You know what
    the worst part is?

    The worst part is—
    that I know why.

    I know why I do it…
    why I pull away.

    I’ve said the reason
    a hundred times,
    in nearly as many rhymes.
    It’s because you meant
    too much to me.
    I got scared and retreated
    into me.

    So here it is—
    March 21st,
    and I—

    I haven’t spoken to you
    since February 6th,
    and if I’m honest—

    I miss you.


    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

    This piece isn’t about greed or excess.
    It’s about intention.

    About money as a tool instead of a god,
    and the difference between hoarding wealth
    and redistributing it with purpose.

    “Dead presidents” aren’t worshipped here —
    they’re repurposed.
    Laid to rest, then put back into circulation.

    This poem lives in that tension:
    wanting enough power to make a difference,
    without letting that power define who you are.

    Rowan Evans


    Paper money arranged like funeral flowers in candlelight, symbolizing wealth, death, and redistribution
    Turning the bank into a wake—
    not to mourn wealth,
    but to redistribute it.

    Graveyard Pockets
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I don’t need money
    to come to me.
    I don’t need wealth
    to be happy.
    I just…

    I want to turn my
    pockets into graveyards,
    fill ’em with dead presidents.
    Then I’ll spread the wealth,
    like I’m robbing the grave.

    Turn the bank,
    to a wake—
    cash laid out like lilies,
    big withdraw on
    a day of remembrance.


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

  • Author’s Note

    This poem is about devotion without submission, and love without surrendering your voice.
    It’s not about violence or divinity—it’s about resolve.
    About the kind of care that doesn’t beg to be heard, but stands firm and says: this matters.

    I Meant It lives in the space where fear turns into courage, where love doesn’t make you smaller—it makes you louder.

    Rowan Evans


    A lone figure standing defiantly before glowing, cracked gates in the clouds, symbolizing courage, devotion, and finding one’s voice.
    Love doesn’t always kneel. Sometimes, it stands its ground.

    I Meant It
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Every time I said
    I’d box God for you,
    I meant it.
    If the weight
    doesn’t lift,
    I’ll go ballistic—
    kicking the pearly gates
    off their hinges.

    I’ll walk in,
    ready to stand on business.
    I won’t beg, won’t plead—
    I’ll stand in defiance,
    ready to riot.
    But I won’t take
    the first swing.

    I’ll just make sure
    they know,
    it’s you—
    I’m doing this for.

    Because,
    the truth is—

    You make me brave,
    in ways
    I didn’t know
    I could be.

    And—
    it’s because of you
    my voice sings now.
    Because of you,
    I can be loud.
    I can stand
    and say,
    what I mean now.


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