I’ve always had a complicated relationship with the voice that comes through my pen.
Sometimes it tells the truth. Sometimes it exaggerates. Sometimes it gets a little too comfortable talking shit.
And sometimes I genuinely can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
So before you read this one, there’s really only one question worth asking:
Is it confession—or cap?
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes the pen tells the truth. Sometimes it talks shit. Sometimes it does both.
Confession or Cap? Poetry by Rowan Evans
Ask anyone and they’ll tell you— I’m nice and that’s true, but my pen can be mean when it speaks— so when I write, you’ve gotta ask— is it confession—
or am I just talking my shit again?
I’ve dissed other poets before— said they were boring, put me to sleep and called them all Watson— because their rhymes were elementary. So when you say I’m great?
No shit, Sherlock.
I’ve written the copies of copies, and the copies that copied that—
inspired less by poets and more by rap—
that’s why when my pen gets hot, I don’t know how to stop— so I pen fire and burn my hands, (ouch!) what am I sayin’? Everything I drop—
Flames.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Fine, Fire It Is] A playful poem about abandoning an ice metaphor, getting carried away with fire, and discovering that sometimes the best description of a poet’s pen is something that refuses to cool down.
[Exhibit A] A quick-witted, unapologetically playful poem about writing fast, crossing lines, roasting the competition, and letting rhythm do the talking.
[Why So Serious?] A playful, chaotic poem packed with pop-culture references, superhero imagery, Disney characters, wordplay, and the kind of ridiculous puns that make the poet wonder why they were ever given a pen.
[Welcome to the Hexverse] Step into the Hexverse—a poetic world where mythmaking, humor, rage, creativity, and confession collide, and darkness becomes something that can be reshaped into art.
This piece is me doing what I do best: writing too fast, joking too much, and letting the pen cross whatever line happens to be in the way.
It’s cocky. It’s playful. It knows exactly how ridiculous it is.
So consider this less of a confession and more of an exhibit.
The evidence is right there on the page.
— Rowan Evans
Exhibit A: The evidence speaks for itself.
Exhibit A (The Evidence) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I write so quick
and joke a bit.
I’m quick-witted—
enough to roast a bitch.
Down to earth,
enough to toast a bitch.
I’m on a roll,
like butter is—
spread thin
across genres,
but still
the cadence hits—
because that’s
where the rhythm lives.
You think I’m joking—
but I really write like this,
take this piece—
it’s the evidence.
Exhibit A on a list to—
these other poets
don’t exist to me.
When I read their work—
it’s straight Zs,
it puts me to sleep.
My mind is too quick,
and I don’t know
where the line is—
I’m always crossing it.
That’s what gets me
in trouble, yeah—
so I just double-down.
I’m already in trouble,
so why stop now?
Journey into the Hexverse
[Welcome to the Hexverse] Step into the Hexverse—a poetic world where mythmaking, humor, rage, creativity, and confession collide, and darkness becomes something that can be reshaped into art.
[Circle of Me] A reflective poem about sitting among the voices of memory, joy, pain, and fear—and realizing that some burdens are bigger than any one person.
[High Tide] A short reflective poem about leaving, returning, and accepting the forces that pull us back—like the tide guided by the moon.
Every poet eventually builds a world around their words.
Sometimes it starts with a page, sometimes with a character, sometimes with a joke—and sometimes it grows into something much bigger than expected.
So, consider this an introduction.
Welcome to the Hexverse.
— Rowan Evans
Welcome to the Hexverse—where words become worlds, darkness becomes art, and the poet becomes the mythmaker.
Welcome to the Hexverse Poetry by Rowan Evans
Welcome to the Hexverse…
where the poet is mythmaker,
comedian and confessor,
part-time Pokémon professor—
cathedral keeper, secret weaver
with words that’ll turn worlds to believers—
multiverse shaper, multiform creator,
poet in heart, rapper in mind,
legend with pen, divine—
see the poet light up the dark,
they are the spark—the heart,
turning darkness into art—
translating rage from cage,
put it on the page in bars—
watch the poet bend the night,
shape the fight, ignite—
turning chaos into scripture,
pain into a living picture—
twist words to heal hurt,
metaphors make you think first—
the poet will pen a pail of water
to quench thirst—
but you can only lead the horse to it.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Louder Than the Rain] A short confessional poem about the overwhelming noise of anxious thoughts, the strange silence of feeling alone in a crowded room, and finding a way to translate pain into words.
[Let Me Be Pacific] A lyrical poem about sitting beside the Pacific Ocean and discovering that an enormous body of water can become a bridge between distant hearts. Through ocean imagery, wordplay, and reflections on California and the Philippines, Let Me Be Pacific explores how love and poetry can cross even the greatest distances.
[My Nightmare] A poem about the nightmare of loving someone across distance, seeing the world from different perspectives, and holding onto the hope that the cracks can still be repaired—and that someday two separate shores might become one.
[Rose & Ruin] Two minimalist poems exploring the opposing forces within creativity: the thoughts we cultivate into something beautiful and the darker thoughts we transform before they have a chance to decay.
[Conductor] A dark, intimate poem about the strange power words can have over the reader—where rhythm, rhyme, and line breaks become instruments capable of reaching beyond the page.
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.
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.
I’ve always loved Avatar: The Last Airbender, not just because of the worldbuilding, but because every bending style reflects a philosophy. Earth is patience. Fire is will. Water is adaptability. Air is freedom.
As I kept writing, I realized the poem wasn’t really about the characters.
It was about poetry.
What if writing could be its own form of bending?
A poet bends language.
A storyteller bends memory.
A confessional writer bends pain into meaning.
So the references gradually became metaphors for different ways I approach writing: anger becoming fire, healing becoming water, stubborn persistence becoming earth, and the rhythm of language becoming its own kind of element.
The “nerd note” stays because that’s genuinely how my brain works. I noticed the line wasn’t technically accurate, paused to explain why I changed it, then immediately jumped back into the poem. I could have removed it—but it made me laugh, and sometimes leaving the fingerprints on a poem makes it feel more alive.
This piece also continues a theme I’ve been exploring lately: treating writing as something almost supernatural. Sometimes I’m a witness. Sometimes I’m a monster in the margins.
This time…
I’m an Inkbender.
— Rowan Evans
Some people bend the elements. I bend the page.
The Inkbender Poetry by Rowan Evans
Tick-Tock— I listen to the sound of the clock. Eyes open to the world, I watch— like I carry time on my wrist. I slipped, keys in the lock— I dipped— ballroom dancing with a twist. A list of names—I check twice, like my name is Clause— kickin’ it with Rudolph.
Shhh— I move earth like I’m from Ba Sing Se. Now, you must be from the southern temples, because when you speak— all I feel is hot air.
You’re an airbender, if you weren’t aware.
(Quick nerd note— it’s the Southern Air Temple, but I had to make it simple— so it could hold the rhythm and carry the cadence. With that explanation we can return to our regularly scheduled chaos.)
I bend bars, the way Toph taught me— feet planted and never backing down. I’m never losing ground— I feel out the imperfections, bend them to my will. I am the originator, that is my skill.
It starts with a spark, a sun with a heart— I’m the fire inside, the fire in the sky. Call me Fire Lord Ozai ’cause I bend fire with a pen. Leaving destruction across the page as I translate my rage— the very thing that could have become my cage.
Then my motion smooths, ink becomes more precise. Pen moves like the tide, watch me flow and glide— my ink like water heals, and my mind knows how trauma feels.
If you thought the nomads were just gonna get a simple diss…
D’Aang— Aang,
your people mastered letting go, I mastered holding on— you chase balance, I chase bars.
You run from problems, I run through them— glider in the sky, I’m the storm beneath it.
Go Avatar State if you want— I bend elements with ink, you bend them with angst.
You know, I shouldn’t roast the monks too hard. Because Ozai did it first and I won’t copy that, but you walked into this— glider first, logic last.
Looking to the future, stuck in the past.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[The Life of a Witness Poet] What does it mean to love someone when the greatest act of care is simply witnessing their life? This poem explores quiet devotion, distance, and the compassionate heart of a witness poet.
[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.
There are quiet days where everything feels distant, muted, hard to reach. And then there are moments where everything hits at once–fast, loud, overwhelming. Thoughts spiral, emotions intensify, and it becomes difficult to tell whether the storm is passing through… or coming from within.
For a long time, I thought the goal was to avoid those storms.
But the truth is–they remind me that I can still feel.
That I’m still here.
That I’m still alive.
This piece sits in that tension–between numbness and chaos, between drifting and grounding.
Because while the storms keep me aware… there are also people who keep me anchored.
And sometimes, that’s what makes surviving the storm possible.
— Rowan Evans
Even in the storm— something steady can keep you from drifting.
Storm Systems Poetry by Rowan Evans
My mind—
it works in weather systems,
sometimes the fog rolls in.
Other times—
the lightning flashes,
thunder rumbles
and my thoughts twist.
They spin and turn—
something cyclonic.
And when the twist tightens,
and the spin quickens—
I leave nothing but destruction
in my wake.
But I guess
you can call me a storm chaser,
the way I chase these storms—
searching for feeling,
just wanting to feel anything.
Because anything
is better than numb.
It’s a reminder
I’m alive.
Honestly—
I forget sometimes,
when I’m feeling
pretty robotic.
Life can get chaotic.
It overwhelms.
It can be too much
if you can’t
center yourself.
You got to go
with the flow,
too—
even when the flow
is a storm.
For me?
That’s where the storms help—
they keep me aware.
To read me is to witness devotion in motion. My words are at once a confession and a clarion call, pulling the reader into the marrow of feeling, into the spaces most often ignored. I write not merely to be heard, but to transform silence into song.
In these lines, you will find the ache of displacement, the fury of truth unflinching, and the soft, sacred reverence for lives, histories, and moments too often overlooked. I bend grief into rhythm, rage into reflection, love into sanctuary. Each poem is a threshold, and I, the poet-guide, invites you to step across it.
To linger in my work is to be reminded that poetry can carry rage, reverence, intimacy, and rebellion all at once. That it can burn, cradle, and illuminate. That, in the midst of a world that would have voices like mine silenced, I insist on speaking — fully, vulnerably, unrepentantly.
I do not write for the casual reader. I write for those willing to see, to feel, and to recognize the quiet revolution of the heart.
Rowan Evans’ As Long As I Am Here – a threshold of rage, reverence, and unflinching truth in motion.
As Long As I Am Here Poetry by Rowan Evans
I feel like I don’t belong here— someone tell me, what the hell is going on here? In this country, I’ve never felt at home, only borrowed, only tolerated, as if my presence were a typo they forgot to erase. Every rule bends around the comfort of whiteness, every system a mirror that refuses my reflection. So my eyes wander, travel beyond borders, seeking somewhere my soul won’t need to apologize.
I’ve dreamed in subtitles, sung in borrowed tongues, found myself in stories written half a world away. From Seoul to Kyoto, Manila to Hong Kong— I saw pieces of myself reflected in their sorrow, in their laughter, their fight to stay soft in a world that demands armor. I learned reverence, resilience, how to bow without breaking.
But here— everywhere I look, I see injustice glaring back, and everyone that looks like me— they shrug, safely cradled in their comfort, pretending ignorance is innocence. They live in their cozy silence, while the streets run red and blue. Oh, what a lullaby privilege sings.
They say they disagree—with the way things are— but their words stop at their teeth. They choke on politeness, too afraid to disturb their dinner conversations. While others pull triggers, sign laws, twist truths— they watch, they sigh, they scroll past the pain.
And still, they point fingers at anyone with melanin in their skin. Black, brown—it matters not. The rot has always been white, colonial bones buried beneath manicured lawns. They call it “heritage,” I call it haunting. Their prayers smell of sanctimony and bleach, their flags wave like veils over graves.
But I have seen too much to be silent. I have wept with those whose names were never printed. I have felt languages slip between my ribs and settle like ghosts learning to rest. I carry the echoes of those who were told to hush— and I will not hush. I am not meek, I am not malleable. I am rage refined into song, grief distilled into gospel.
Do not ask me to fit your mold. I was not built to fit— I was built to bloom where concrete cracked. To speak where silence suffocates. To burn where others bow.
I am not the threat you imagine— I am the truth you buried. I am the harmony you drowned out. I am the daughter of storms, the son that rages, the poet of thresholds, the one who will not turn away.
And when they ask me why I care, why I rage, why I won’t blend in— I will answer: Because I am here. Because I have seen. Because to live in silence is to die in comfort.
I feel like I don’t belong here— but as long as I am here, I will not stop speaking. I will not stop writing. I will not stop breathing life into every truth they tried to bury. I may not belong here, but my voice does now— and it is not leaving.
If this piece resonated with you, you may also like:
WOKE Part 1: Staying Awake in a World of Injustice A searing exploration of staying vigilant in a world of systemic injustice. Rowan Evans confronts oppression and the emotional toll of resisting a society that labels truth as crime.
Slim & Shady: Culture Forgotten, Heritage Lost A rapid-fire, confessional exploration of feeling rootless in a nation that demands assimilation while erasing cultural identity. Rowan Evans confronts heritage lost and the emptiness of a melting pot that excludes the unanchored.
Slim & Shady X: Bloodline & Ashes A fierce, confessional lyrical manifesto confronting erased histories, whitewashed culture, and the silenced voices forgotten ancestors. Rowan Evans ignites a blaze of truth from the ashes of American lies.
Slim & Shady represents an intentional departure from my typical Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism style. While my work often navigates darkness, devotion, and the sacred intimacy of emotional intensity, this piece allowed me to explore playfulness, wordplay, and the rhythm of language in a more extroverted, lyrical mode.
The poem is inspired by the energy and craft of rappers like Eminem and Ez Mil—artists whose work demonstrates that poetry can exist outside the page, in beats, bars, and flow. Here, I experimented with pun-driven humor, internal rhymes, and clever metaphors, while still maintaining a personal voice and poetic precision.
Writing Slim & Shady was an exercise in flexibility and homage: to show that my creativity is not confined to one aesthetic, to embrace influences beyond traditional literary sources, and to honor the ways that music, modern lyricism, and pop culture inform the poetry I write.
This poem is as much a celebration of language’s agility as it is a declaration that my writing—while often dark, confessional, and intense—can also be mischievous, clever, and audacious.
Slim & Shady spins—a tribute to wordplay, rhythm, and poetic devotion outside the ordinary.
Slim & Shady Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m slim and a little shady, but my name isn’t Marshall, baby. I don’t play games—I’ll show you, you’re all that matters (Mathers), maybe.
I spit bars like Morse code, dots and dashes tracing your pulse in secret mode. A pun dealer, word-wrangler, lyricist on call, my syllables hit harder than a heavyweight in a brawl.
I walk in soles, not just with souls, kickin’ rhymes while your world rolls. License to rhyme, no paperwork filed, parking my wit in your mind, untamed and wild.
Cupid called—he wants his arrows back, I said “Sorry, they’re trapped in a pun-packed stack.” Knight of puns, Queen of quips, cocktails of cleverness sliding to your lips.
I rhyme in circles, loop devotion, heart stuck on repeat in clever-motion. “You love me,” you say—I hear: “I’ll pun your heart like it’s fresh veneer.”
I swing metaphors like a playground sword, hyperboles armed, similes stored. Shady? Maybe. Slim? Of course. I bend words like rivers, a linguistic force.
I’m the mixtape of thought you didn’t know you needed, the chorus of chaos, perfectly seeded. I spit fire, not smoke—incendiary lines, crossword puzzle heart, riddled in signs.
Your laugh? A semicolon in my sentence— pause, breath, then back to my pence. Double meanings double the fun, like two-step lyrics under the pun-sun.
I slide in rhymes, slicker than gel, tongue-tied labyrinth, I’ll never fail. Slim, shady, sly, not Marshall but true, I pun my devotion, spelling it out for you.
I’m the vinyl scratch in your mental groove, the hidden hook you never saw move. I take your name, make it rhyme, and spin, pun-demic heart—welcome, come on in.
Journey in the Hexverse
Feral Cathedral— Hex Nightshade Dive into the raw, feral worship of desire in Feral Cathedral. A hymn to hunger, chaos, and devotion—where teeth, breath, and pulse become sacred.
Gold in Open Hands— Rowan Evans A quiet liturgy for those who give without spectacle, who hold the weight of others’ lives tenderly, scattering hope like seeds and crafting a sanctuary in the cracks of the world.
Through the Shattered Glass— B.D. Nightshade Enter the mind of a fractured soul, piecing together the aftermath of a night shrouded in blood and memory. Fragments of self, shadowed actions, and haunting reflections collide—leaving only one question: What have I done?
Every word I write is a devotion, a fragment of shadow and light carefully shaped into verse. On my Ko-fi, I offer custom poems, personalized rituals in language, and lyrical messages crafted just for you—or someone you wish to honor, surprise, or remember.
Whether you seek:
A poem for a loved one, friend, or muse
A ritualized or thematic verse for special occasions
A written reflection to say everything you struggle to
…each commission is approached with care, reverence, and the intensity of my signature Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism.
✨ Special Offer:Use code NGCR25 at checkout to receive 25% off any commission until the end of the month. Let these words become your keepsake, your offering, your moment of devotion.
