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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Spoken Word

  • B.S.T.F.U. | A Battle-Poetry Flex by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    B.S.T.F.U. is me flexing.

    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

    A confident poet stands in a dark battle-poetry arena holding a fountain pen beside a towering ladder symbolizing literary skill.
    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.

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

  • Impasta (A Diss in Pasta Form) | Tony Stanza’s Pasta Poetry Diss

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Ayo…

    Tony Stanza is back.

    And apparently, he has beef with another poet.

    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

    A fictional poet confidently writing a diss poem beside plates of spaghetti, fettuccine, macaroni, ravioli, and angel hair pasta.
    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.

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

  • The Inkbender | A Nerdy Poetry Tribute to Avatar: The Last Airbender

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem began with one simple idea:

    What if bending wasn’t limited to the elements?

    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

    A fantasy-inspired illustration of a poet surrounded by magical ink transforming into earth, fire, water, and air.
    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.

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

  • Not Her—The Echoes | A Poem About Trauma, Trust, and Unlearning Fear

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    There’s a difference between what’s happening now… and what your body remembers.

    Sometimes the hardest part of connection isn’t the other person–it’s everything that came before them.

    The learned reactions. The instinct to pull away. The quiet voice that says this will go wrong too, even when there’s no real evidence that it will.

    This piece comes from that space.

    From recognizing the difference between someone who is safe… and the echoes of people who weren’t.

    And from the understanding that healing isn’t just knowing the truth–

    it’s about teaching your instincts to believe it.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person surrounded by shadowy figures from the past while facing a calm glowing figure ahead, symbolizing trauma and trust
    Not every fear belongs to the present.

    Not Her—The Echoes
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I have a simple question
    I keep asking myself—
    why do you hide?

    When you want connection,
    why stay inside?

    You want to reach out,
    but you stay in your mind.

    Why?

    Well,
    the truth is—
    I hide to protect myself.

    It’s what I learned
    worked for me.

    When someone
    feels too close,
    I retreat.

    I used to open up,
    be vulnerable.
    I would share
    my internal world—

    then it was used
    against me.

    That’s tragic—
    but she didn’t do it.

    I know that.
    You think I don’t know that?

    I’m well aware
    she wasn’t the one.

    That’s what makes this so hard.

    I’m fighting habit,
    instinct—
    and I don’t say that
    to be dramatic.

    I’m not running from her.

    I’m running from echoes—
    old shadows wearing new faces,
    old wounds pretending
    to be present danger.

    I know she isn’t them.
    I know she isn’t the hands
    that taught me silence.

    But instinct doesn’t ask permission.

    It just pulls the alarm,
    slams the door,
    locks the ribs
    around the heart

    before I can say,
    “wait… this is different.”

    I’m not hiding from her.

    I’m hiding from the memory
    of being punished
    for being real.

    And unlearning that—
    is its own kind of bravery.

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

  • Storm Systems | A Poem About Mental Health, Emotional Chaos, and Finding Ground

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    For me–it’s weather.

    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

    Person standing near a lighthouse during a storm, symbolizing emotional chaos and grounding support
    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.

    And then—her voice,
    keeps me
    firmly planted here,

    so I don’t drift and sway,
    and just float away—

    her voice
    a lighthouse
    in all this weather.

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

  • “As Long As I Am Here” – Poetry by Rowan Evans | Devotion, Rage, and Reverence in Verse

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    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.

    “Atmospheric neo-gothic scene of a lone figure standing on cracked concrete with glowing words swirling around them, representing voice and resistance.”
    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:

    The Mutation of Whiteness: A Raw Exposé by Rowan Evans
    A searing, unapologetic poem exposing white privilege, societal lies, and the mutation of whiteness, by Rowan Evans. (Poem title: Allergic to Lies)

    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.

    Drifting Without Roots: A Poem on Cultural Identity and Longing
    A confessional poem exploring envy of cultural heritage, the ache of disconnection, and the search for belonging in a fractured identity.

  • Slim & Shady: A Playful Poetic Homage by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    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.

    Abstract art of a vinyl record surrounded by spinning words and ink splashes, representing lyrical play and poetic energy.
    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?

    More Slim & Shady

    If you are interested in reading the whole series, find it here: The Slim & Shady Series

    ✦ Poetic Commissions by Rowan Evans ✦

    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.

    Ko-Fi