←

Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: survival

  • Danny Phantom Theology | A Poem About Living Between Worlds and Choosing Hope

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem began with a cartoon.

    Or rather, it began with a metaphor borrowed from one.

    I’ve always been drawn to characters who exist between worlds—people who don’t fully belong in one place or another, who spend their lives navigating the space between identities, expectations, realities, and possibilities.

    When I thought about Danny Phantom, I realized the metaphor fit more than I expected.

    Not because I feel haunted.

    Not because I feel supernatural.

    But because I understand what it feels like to exist in two places at once.

    Part of me lives in the present moment—the practical world of obligations, routines, limitations, and survival.

    Another part lives somewhere else.

    A quieter place built from hope, imagination, memory, longing, possibility, and the belief that life can become more than what it currently is.

    For a long time, much of my writing has existed in the tension between those two worlds.

    The opening sections of this poem lean into that tension. They acknowledge exhaustion, frustration, and the feeling of carrying more weight than you’d like. But the poem isn’t interested in staying there.

    What matters to me is where it ends.

    Because this isn’t a poem about giving up.

    It’s a poem about wanting more from life than survival.

    About wanting a future that feels inviting instead of merely manageable.

    About believing that the light inside us isn’t meant to spend its entire existence fighting to stay alive.

    Sometimes it deserves the chance to burn because it’s excited.

    Excited about tomorrow.

    Excited about possibility.

    Excited about whatever comes next.

    Maybe that’s the real theology hidden inside the title:

    Not that we exist between worlds.

    But that we keep moving toward the one where we finally get to live.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure stands between a gray city and a glowing world of light and possibility, symbolizing living between survival and hope.
    Somewhere between the life we endure and the life we imagine, hope keeps the light alive.

    Danny Phantom Theology
    Poetry by Rowan Evan1s

    Sometimes I feel
    like Danny Phantom,
    a boy between worlds—
    one alive, the other
    a quiet place inside me
    where the light flickers
    but never fully goes out.

    I exist in both.
    But I do not thrive,
    most the time
    it barely feels like I’ll survive.
    I know that’s a little dramatic—
    it’s a bad habit.
    I know my words feel heavy,
    more than intended most the time.
    I know what it sounds like—
    it sounds like I don’t like life.

    But that’s not true—
    I’m a lover of life,
    a hater of the conditions.
    I want a change—
    in environment,
    in circumstance.

    I want a world
    where I don’t have to split myself
    to make it through the day,
    where the light inside me
    doesn’t flicker
    from exhaustion
    but from possibility.

    I want a life
    where survival
    isn’t the main objective.
    Where waking up
    isn’t an act of endurance,
    but anticipation.
    Where the light inside me
    doesn’t flicker
    because it’s fighting to stay alive—

    but because…

    it’s excited
    for what’s next.

    Journey into the Hexverse…

    [Frankenstein’s Monster]
    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.

    [Lone Wolf Theology]
    A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.

    [Before We Created the Labels]
    Ancient gods return to a fractured world shaped by borders, identities, and separation. “Before We Created the Labels” explores humanity’s divisions through mythic imagery, sacred ritual, and symbolic collapse—asking what remains when we learn to see one another beyond labels.

    [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.

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

  • Depths – A Poem About Writing, Survival, and the Fear of Feeling

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem isn’t about skill.
    It’s about orientation.

    Some people write to be understood.
    Some people write because silence feels lethal.

    This piece is for the ones who learned to live in the deep—
    who didn’t choose intensity so much as need it to breathe.

    It isn’t an accusation.
    It’s a recognition.

    Not everyone was taught that the ocean is real.

    A figure breathing underwater in deep blue ocean light, symbolizing emotional depth and survival.
    Some of us learned to breathe underwater.

    Depths
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I write
    like I might
    die, if I don’t.

    You write
    like you’re trying
    to pen
    the perfect quote.

    We are not the same.

    But you
    are not to blame.
    It’s not on you
    to carry
    society’s shame.

    They went shallow,
    and punished the depths.

    Closing Note

    Some of us learned
    to breathe underwater.

    Some of us
    were told
    the ocean
    was a lie.

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

  • Between Worlds – A Poem About Mental Illness, Identity & Survival | Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is the closest I’ve come to writing the truth of my internal war without softening it. Between Worlds is about self-violence—the way the mind learns your weak spots, remembers the old wounds, and knows exactly where to cut. It’s a poem about relapse, about memory, about survival, and about the strange loneliness that follows healing.

    It speaks to the years where I wasn’t sure I’d make it. The hospital walls. The padded quiet. The fluorescent lights humming through the silence. It speaks to dissociation, to identity, to queerness, and to the mythic distance I’ve always felt between who I am and the world I live in.

    This poem isn’t a cry for help—it’s a record of survival. It isn’t tragedy for tragedy’s sake—it’s truth. It’s the reality that healing isn’t linear, that progress has shadows, and that sometimes the loudest battles are fought in the mind no one else can see.

    If you know this feeling—of standing in your own skin like it never quite fits, of fighting thoughts with thoughts, of loving your existence even when you question your place in it—then I hope you feel seen here.

    Because none of us are alone in the in-between.

    — Rowan Evans

    Nonbinary person standing between a hospital hallway and a star-filled night sky, symbolizing dissociation and identity between worlds.
    Between Worlds — artwork representing Rowan Evans’ poem about surviving mental illness, dissociation, and identity beyond binaries.

    Between Worlds
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Why do I
    always try
    to pick a fight
    with me?

    You’d think I’d know,
    by now, just how
    quick I’ll slip
    an insult
    under the ribs.

    I’ll hit
    every single fear,
    twist them
    like a knife—
    until I’m
    on my knees,
    gasping,
    spitting blood.

    I don’t fight fair.
    I target old wounds,
    tear at what’s
    already healed.
    I’ll fuck around
    and send myself
    back ten years—
    back to hospital walls
    and quiet rooms,
    where the only sound
    was the fluorescent hum.

    Where time dissolved…
    where clocks stopped
    ticking.

    But I walked out
    of those halls—
    didn’t I?

    Didn’t I?

    But what if I didn’t?
    What if I’m still locked inside,
    in a padded room
    with the jacket
    strapped tight?
    Thoughts confined,
    so the words
    won’t escape.

    Writing poems
    in my head,
    just to pass
    the time.

    I’ve been alive,
    but dead inside.
    And I’ll be honest:
    I’ve died
    inside my mind
    more than
    a dozen times.

    I just wanted escape.

    Escape from pain,
    from feeling misplaced—
    I just wanted
    to belong.

    But it’s like—
    something is wrong here.
    Why don’t I
    feel like
    I belong here?

    Why does everything feel
    a half inch to the left—
    like I’m living inside
    the echo of myself?

    Like I’m watching my life
    from behind fogged glass,
    palms against the surface,
    screaming—
    but no sound
    passes through.

    Sometimes I swear
    the world forgets I’m here,
    and sometimes
    I do too.

    Maybe it’s because
    every room I walk into,
    I’m half a ghost already—
    too queer, too quiet,
    too soft, too strange.
    Too fucking much
    for everyone
    but me.

    Maybe that’s why
    the fight never ends—
    because I’m still trying
    to prove I deserve
    the space I take up,
    even in my own skin.

    So maybe I don’t belong here
    because I was born
    between worlds—
    not alive, not dead,
    not human, not myth,
    not safe, not ruined.

    Maybe my bones remember
    a home I never had,
    and every heartbeat since
    has been an attempt
    to map
    my way back.

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

  • Since I Was Thirteen (Fluent in Survival) – Rowan Evans Poetry

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is not about wanting to die.
    It is about learning how to survive long before learning how to live.

    A shadowed figure in a dimly lit room, reflecting in solitude, surrounded by deep shadows and soft light, evoking introspection and survival.
    Reflecting on survival, solitude, and the quiet strength found in shadows.

    Since I Was Thirteen (Fluent in Survival)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I feel like I’m lost,
    I’m wandering.
    Twisted thoughts,
    I’m pondering.

    My demise
    in a life I despise.
    It’s not that I want to die—
    I’m just tired
    of trying to survive.

    I want to be happy.
    I’m alive.

    But my head
    is so full of dread—
    every morning
    a negotiation
    just to get out of bed.

    Body feels heavy,
    limbs lagging—
    everything moves
    in slow-motion.

    Slipping into shadows—
    going home.
    The light has never felt like mine.
    I was born in the shadows,
    raised in the shade.
    Darkness has been
    my mindscape—
    since I was thirteen.

    I learned early
    how to make myself small—
    how to soften my footsteps
    inside my own head.

    I memorized the weight of silence,
    learned which thoughts were safe to keep
    and which ones
    needed to stay buried.

    Survival became a second language,
    spoken fluently,
    even when no one was listening.

    I say I’m alive
    like it’s a defense—
    like survival
    should be enough.

    But living
    feels like something other people do
    without rehearsing it first.

    Closing Note

    I wrote this for anyone who learned survival before they learned safety.
    For those who are still here, even when “alive” feels like a negotiation.
    You are not failing — you are fluent in something the world never taught gently.

    For more poetry, check out the archives: [The Library of Ashes]

  • Ghost in My Body – Poem by Rowan Evans | Survival, Mental Health & Emotional Struggle

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is not a cry for help — it’s a confession. It’s the truth about living in a body that feels too heavy, a heart that beats even when I’m too tired to hold it. For anyone who knows what it’s like to rise with no hope, no spark, just sheer stubborn survival — this one is for you. You’re not alone in the mornings that feel impossible. You’re not alone in the weight.

    Ghostly figure with glowing heartbeat, representing emotional struggle and resilience, emerging from darkness.
    “Even when the body feels heavy and the heart refuses rest, the spirit rises — a ghost in its own skin.”

    Ghost in My Body
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I awoke,
    empty of hope.
    Chest tight, eyes wide—
    the world felt
    unbearably heavy.
    I took a minute,
    recalibrated.
    I fix my face
    into something readable,
    something quiet—
    because they’ll look
    straight into my eyes,
    and still ask,
    “But… are you happy?”

    I haven’t really been
    since I was thirteen—
    the year something in me
    stopped blooming.
    Yeah, it’s been
    a lack of smiles,
    since I
    was thirteen.
    The year the light in me
    learned to dim itself.

    It’s been a
    constant struggle,
    as I’ve struggled constantly.
    I struggle to find
    my place.
    I struggle to recognize
    my face.
    Trust me, when I say
    I struggle with everything.
    Like, I don’t want to die,
    but I—
    don’t really want to be alive.
    It’s a struggle
    just to survive.

    It’s a struggle just to survive,
    carrying a body
    that feels heavier
    than I do.
    Dragging a heartbeat
    that won’t quit
    even when I’m tired of holding it.

    And yet—
    every morning,
    somehow,
    I rise.
    Not healed,
    not whole,
    just here.
    Dragging the weight,
    of a heartbeat
    that refuses to stop
    even when I want rest,
    even when I want it to.

    I’m just
    a ghost still trying
    to haunt its own body.

    But still,
    I pull myself upright—
    not because I’m hopeful,
    but because something in me
    refuses to die quietly.
    And maybe one day
    the bloom returns,
    the light rekindles—
    but tonight,
    I just breathe
    and call it survival.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.

  • I Survive (I’m Alive) – A Poem About Depression, Survival, and Choosing to Stay

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is a reflection on the long, quiet war I’ve carried inside my mind for most of my life. I wrote this piece as an acknowledgment of survival—not as a victory march, but as a tired, honest admission that I’m still here. Depression and anxiety are battles most people never see, but if you’re fighting them too, I hope this reminds you that surviving is a form of defiance. You’re not alone, and your existence—even in the hardest moments—is a testament to your strength.

    A solitary figure surrounded by symbolic shadows and swirling smoke, standing in an abstract mental battlefield, illuminated by a faint light.
    A visual representation of the internal war between survival and despair.

    I Survive (I’m Alive)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I stand in the midst of a battlefield—
    not literal, but metaphor.
    And I still struggle to see
    what this struggle is even for.
    There is a war raging in my head,
    between the voice that wants to live
    and the voice that wants me dead.

    That was me at sixteen.
    Now I’m thirty-five—
    still wondering how I’m even alive.
    And though I’ve fought like hell,
    I’m not doing well.
    Yet I survive.
    Even when I don’t thrive,
    I’m alive.

    Alive in spite of
    years of internal torment.
    So go on—
    tell me I’m going to hell
    for the way I live.
    I’ll face eternal torment
    with a smile on my face;
    I’ve lived it already.

    Next year, I’ll be thirty-six.
    Six. Six.
    They say I’m evil in my ways,
    that even the devil
    wouldn’t praise.
    But that’s okay—
    because I’m mentally sick.
    Sick. Sick.

    Depression.
    Anxiety.
    They are the rot
    inside of me.
    I see them with clarity.
    I don’t need
    your pity or charity.

    I just need patience,
    and understanding—
    but you won’t give it,
    because you’ve never lived it.
    So how could you?
    How could you understand
    what it’s like
    to both want to live
    and to die
    at the same time,
    in the same breath?

    But I won’t leave.
    I won’t shed this flesh.
    I’ve made promises.
    I promised…
    I’m not going anywhere.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.

  • When Survival Gets Quiet – A Poem About Healing, Pain, and Being Seen

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece came from a place of uncomfortable clarity — the kind that only arrives after you’ve survived enough storms to notice the patterns in the people around you. There’s a strange truth I’ve learned over the years: some people loved me louder when I was breaking than when I was healing. Pain made me poetic, easy to praise, easy to place on a pedestal of tragedy. But healing? Healing is quieter, steadier, less romantic. And somehow, to some people, that made it less worthy of attention.

    I didn’t write this to shame anyone. I wrote it because it’s real — because recovery deserves reverence too, because resilience isn’t any less beautiful than collapse, and because we don’t talk enough about how lonely healing can be.

    This piece is for anyone who’s ever felt more valuable broken than whole. For anyone rebuilding themselves without applause. For anyone learning to exist without having to bleed for validation.

    You are still art.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary figure in a dim, gothic museum surrounded by cracked statues, symbolizing healing after emotional collapse.
    Even survival can feel quiet in a world that only learned to listen to the sound of breaking.

    When Survival Gets Quiet
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s always been strange to me
    how people praised me louder
    when I was dying inside
    than when I wasn’t.

    And I don’t say this
    to make anyone feel shame—
    it’s just something I’ve noticed
    over time.
    Over a lot of motherfuckin’ time.

    I can think back
    to so many moments
    where I was ready to check out.
    Where the smallest thing
    felt like the final straw.

    And I don’t say that
    to minimize, or erase,
    or make light of the weight
    those moments carried.

    They held me like a museum tragedy—
    a relic of ruin,
    a beautiful collapse.

    But when I finally learned to breathe again,
    their applause softened,
    like my healing made the art
    less valuable.

    Maybe it’s easier to love me
    when I’m bleeding metaphors
    than when I’m quietly rebuilding.

    Maybe survival is too quiet
    for people who only learned
    to listen to the sound
    of breaking.

    Looking for more poetry? You can find it all in the Library of Ashes.

  • Echoes of Reality – A Poetic Reckoning with Memory and Survival

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Some experiences leave marks that cannot be erased. Some truths are shouted silently in the shadowed corners of memory.

    Echoes of Reality is my attempt to give voice to a time I was silenced, to the confusion and pain that lingered long after the moments themselves. This piece does not seek comfort or closure—it seeks acknowledgment. It is a testament to survival, to remembering, and to insisting that my reality is my own.

    Read with care, and hold space for the truth it carries.

    Moody, dimly lit room with shadows and a journal, representing reflection on trauma and survival.
    Echoes of Reality – a poetic testament to memory, trauma, and survival.

    Echoes of Reality
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Have you heard somber words spoken,
    and felt the cold touch of trauma?
    Because I know the confusion caused
    by their cold invalidation,
    the questioning of reality,
    like did it really happen—
    the way I’m remembering?

    Their touches, unwanted,
    but that’s not what they’ll tell you,
    gaslighting, rewriting,
    reality to confuse and manipulate,
    to keep you questioning,
    did that really happen—
    the way I’m remembering?

    You try and get away,
    but it follows, always advancing,
    unwanted, it was unwanted,
    but that’s not what they tell you,
    until eventually, even you’ll believe,
    it didn’t really happen—
    the way you’re remembering.

    It’s been years, so why do I still feel them,
    why is my skin not coming clean?
    If it never happened,
    why does it replay in my darkest dreams,
    why does the nightmare keep repeating,
    if it never happened—
    the way I’m remembering?

    I’ve struggled through the dark,
    trying to resurface, but I’m lost here,
    I’m stuck in this place,
    it endlessly replays
    and still, I keep questioning,
    are these even memories?
    But why would I make it up,
    for what?

    My eyes are open, now I see,
    this was my reality,
    it happened, you can’t say it didn’t,
    because it happened to me,
    I lived it.
    I felt it.
    And I know,
    it happened exactly—
    as I’m remembering.

  • Exhibit of Survival – Reflection on Resilience and Empathy by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece reflects on the quiet strength it takes to remain soft in a world that often tries to harden you. It’s a personal reflection on resilience, empathy, and the enduring capacity to love, even in the face of doubt and adversity.

    This post marks my 83rd consecutive day of sharing on the blog,   I have not missed a day since August 8th… During this time, I have tried to push myself to be a little more open. A little more honest. Even when it’s hard, even when I just want to be closed off from the world…

    Figure sitting on the floor surrounded by pinned papers and threads, illuminated by soft light, representing reflection, resilience, and quiet strength.
    Caught in the threads of life — resilience and reflection hold them in place.

    Exhibit of Survival
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Pins.
    They hold me in place.
    As the glass
    lowers over my face.
    Framed.
    In a frame. On display.
    Like a dead butterfly.

    I have had people in my life who pretended to be on my side—who pretended to care—when really, they just wanted front-row seats to my struggles. They wanted to watch as I unraveled, whispering doubts to freeze me in place, to preserve the ache. To keep me from moving forward. And yet, I still pushed. I still tried.

    Threads.
    Tied to limbs.
    Marionette.
    Puppet on strings.
    They’ve got control of me.
    Free? Not really.

    Those same people tried to talk me out of anything I wanted to do—anything that could bring me closer to the life I wanted. “Why do you want to leave America?” they’d ask. But it’s not my home; it’s just the place I was born. The place I was raised. I’ve never felt like I belong here. Not once.

    Everything holds me back—my brain looping their doubts, my own depression and anxiety echoing them back to me. It’s a war on all fronts. And still, I stand.

    My thoughts.
    They flutter and fade
    in this liminal space.
    It’s pain—
    just to be alive.
    It’s a wonder.
    A miracle.
    How have I survived?

    Resilience. And reminders from the few who truly see me, who truly believe in me. Without them, I might have given up long ago. But because of them, I’ve kept my empathy alive. I’ve refused apathy. I’ve stayed soft. I’ve kept my heart open and given love freely.

    How?
    How have I
    made it to thirty-five?
    Every day I wake up.
    Surprised.

    That surprise isn’t mine anymore. It’s the echo of others’ doubts—ones I no longer answer.

  • The Rot & The Poet | A Confessional Dialogue by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    🩸 Author’s Note

    The Rot & The Poet is a confessional dialogue between two voices that have lived within me for over two decades — the one that wants to create, and the one that whispers destruction. It’s the internal war of survival that every artist who’s faced depression knows too well.

    This poem is not about defeat; it’s about endurance. It’s about knowing that the shadow doesn’t win just because it speaks louder — and that light, even when trembling, still burns.

    — Rowan Evans, Neo‑Gothic Confessional Romanticism

    A candlelit gothic desk with a notebook and shadows forming the shape of a face behind the poet, symbolizing inner conflict.
    “Even shadows need light to exist.” — The Rot & The Poet

    The Rot & The Poet
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    [The Rot]
    Hello Rowan, it’s me again…
    The voice that lingers inside your head,
    The one that whispers, making you wish you were dead.
    You thought I was gone, but I’m still here,
    Making you wish you’d just disappear.

    [The Poet]
    Shut up. You’re nothing.
    A voice that matters not,
    Just internal rot,
    Creeping only when I have something to say.
    You’re just a monster.

    [The Rot]
    Oh, I’m not the monster…
    That’s you, walking rot on the world.
    You think you matter?
    You don’t even know if you’re a boy or a girl.
    You’re so pathetic.

    [The Poet]
    Pathetic? More like prophetic.
    I see what the future brings,
    And it brings clarity.
    I write as charity,
    I write to give back to the world.
    You try to dim that.

    [The Rot]
    You write to give back to the world?
    You write for a world
    that wishes you forgotten.
    Or did you forget? Nobody wants you here.
    You’ve got a voice—nobody wants to hear.

    [The Poet]
    That’s not true. People are listening…
    From Germany to Spain,
    Ireland, Sweden, and Singapore too.
    Kenya to the Philippines,
    India, Hungary, and France…
    I’ve got people that pay attention;
    It’s my words they consume.

    [The Rot]
    You can think what you want,
    But you’re nothing without me.
    Do you think you’d actually be happy?
    When you thought I was gone,
    You were still in the dark, wallowing,
    Still trying to figure out what you wanted.

    [The Poet]
    I knew exactly what I wanted.
    I was starting to make moves.
    I was working toward my goals,
    But then you showed your ugly head again,
    Tried to twist my thoughts,
    Tried to make me think I wished to be dead again.

    [The Rot]
    Ha ha… Don’t make me laugh.
    You’re nothing, remember?
    You think you’ve got friends,
    You think you’ve got fans?
    Do you really think anyone truly understands?

    [The Poet]
    I don’t think I have fans,
    But I know I have friends.
    I have people that care,
    And they tell me all the time.

    [The Rot]
    They’re just lying.
    Nobody truly cares.
    If they did, they’d be here.

    [The Poet]
    Fuck you. I won’t let you in again.
    I won’t let you win again.
    You won’t push me to the edge,
    You won’t make me want to jump.
    I won’t question my worth anymore—
    Not for you, not for the voice inside my head,
    Not for anyone that makes me wish I were dead.

    [The Rot]
    Oh, you’re too cute.
    Rowan, just think for a minute.
    Think about what you’re saying.
    You think you can cut me off?
    You think you’re in control?
    How long have I been with you?
    Since you were thirteen…
    Twenty-two years now?

    [The Poet]
    Twenty-two years, yes.
    I’ll confess, you’ve had a hold on me.
    You’ve almost broken me.
    But I’ve always fought back.
    I’ve always survived.
    Look at me—thirty-five, still alive.

    [The Rot]
    Still alive? Maybe.
    But are you truly surviving?

    [The Poet]
    I’m still breathing, and that’s enough.

    [The Rot]
    Breathing? You’re bleeding.
    Is that the life you want to live?

    [The Poet]
    Shut up!
    Just shut up!

    [The Rot]
    Oh, look at you…
    You’re shaking.
    Am I getting under your skin?
    I feel it…
    I’m so close to breaking you,
    Making you finally see…
    You’re nothing without me.
    You need the pain, you need the hate.
    You need something you can take and shape.

    [The Poet]
    If you were as strong as you say you are,
    You wouldn’t disappear in the morning.
    You’d still be here, keeping me mourning.
    But the sun will rise, and you’ll fade from my eyes.
    You’ll be gone from my mind.

    [The Rot]
    Until the sun sets.
    Then I’m back again,
    Your only true friend.
    The one that never leaves,
    The one who’s stayed through seasons change.

    [The Poet]
    That might be true.
    You might be my longest companion.
    The depression, the anxiety—
    I know you stay, living inside me.

    [The Rot]
    Inside your mind,
    Inside your marrow.
    The doubt that creeps in
    With everything you say.
    The reason love leaves,
    And you continue to bleed…
    The one that keeps your words moving,
    The self-hate you need.

    [The Poet]
    Then you admit it—
    You live because I do.
    You breathe because I write.
    Every time I put pen to page,
    You leech a little life from me,
    But I still create.
    I still survive.

    You’re the shadow, I’m the flame—
    And shadows can’t exist without the light.

    [The Rot]
    Okay, you’re right.
    I can’t live without the light.
    But as long as I’m here,
    It’s the light you truly fear.
    You dwell in the shadows,
    In my domain.
    You only know you’re alive
    Because you feel my pain.

    [The Poet]
    You think I need you?
    When really, it’s you that needs me.
    You’re the shadow,
    I’m the flame.
    Without my fire,
    There’s no shadow to cast.

    Sure, my art thrives in the pain you create,
    But I thrive in the love, and the light—
    Everything you hate.

    Without me,
    You’re nothing.
    Just an afterthought.
    Without me,
    There is no you…
    There is no rot.

    It’s me, the core of this being,
    The heart of the Fourfold Flame,
    That gives everything in us a name.
    You think you can break me,
    But you’ve been trying—
    For nearly twenty-three years now,
    You’ve been trying to shatter me.

    You’ve been shadowing,
    Trying to block out the light.
    But once the light fades…
    So do you.

    If you made it this far and want to read more of my work, you can find it in The Library of Ashes—[here].