Every Word I Mean is one of the most vulnerable things I’ve written in a while—not because it hides behind metaphor, but because it refuses to. I’m used to expressing the deepest truths in symbols, shadows, and lyrical disguises. But this time, I wanted to speak plainly. To show what it looks like when I mean something so much that I don’t need to dress it in poetry.
Every line in this piece is something I’ve said in real life—honestly, openly, without hesitation. These aren’t metaphors or masks; they’re just my truth. And putting that truth into ink feels almost more intimate than any confession I’ve written before.
This is me without armor. Just words I meant, and still mean.
— Rowan Evans
A quiet moment of truth poured into ink — every word written with intention.
Every Word I Mean Poetry by Rowan Evans
If I speak it,
in words or ink,
then know I mean it.
Because I don’t say things
just to say them—
I only say them
when I feel them.
Like—
I love
your smile,
your laugh,
your nose.
(It’s cute, really.)
I think you’re beautiful,
and I’m not going anywhere.
I’m never going to leave.
I want to build a real foundation.
Show you the love and respect
you deserve.
With me,
I always want you
to feel safe and heard.
These are all things I’ve said—
not hidden in poems,
not wrapped in metaphors.
I said them plainly,
straightforward,
unshaken.
And maybe that’s why
I write it now—
not to hide the truth,
but to honor it.
To show you that
even my simplest words
carry weight,
carry intention,
carry you.
Because when I say anything—
whether in ink
or breath—
it’s because I feel it:
every syllable,
every moment,
every piece of you
that I’ve come to love.
Suggested Reads
[Over and Over] A vulnerable, deeply honest poem about choosing someone again and again—despite distance, fear, and the chaos between two very different worlds. Over and Over captures that wild gravity between two people who weren’t meant to collide… yet somehow did.
[The Power You Give Me] A poem about sacred intimacy, quiet devotion, and the kind of connection that feels like sorcery without spells. The Power You Give Me explores how trust, desire, and vulnerability turn touch into magic—and why real power is held by the person who lets you close.
[Carved From Intention] A poem about the quiet, deliberate way I love—and the frustration of being misunderstood. Not all affection is loud or scattered; some of us give ourselves slowly, carefully, and only with intention.
Looking for even more poetry? You can explore everything inThe Library of Ashes.
I wrote this for her — the one whose name feels like both prayer and sin.
Not to mock heaven, but to remind it what love looks like when it’s lived in human skin.
Because sometimes, faith isn’t worship. It’s defiance in the name of tenderness.
“Love made them fearless enough to brawl with heaven — and tender enough to lay it back to rest.”
When I Fought God for Her Poetry by Rowan Evans
You said— you had a migraine again, so I told you, I’d say a little prayer. But if that didn’t work, I’d go up there and make God make it go away.
You laughed. But I meant it. I’d box deities to take your pain away. I’d throw hands with Gods and Goddesses.
I’d walk right up, like — “listen here, you divine little prick.” Catch him off guard: “You might be God, but you clearly got a little dick. The way you wield little-dick energy.”
Go ahead— smite me. (Coward.) Just know— you better be ready to fight me.
“I said heal her, not test her— you omnipotent coward. Give her rest, or I’ll rewrite your scripture myself.”
So I climb. Not on a ladder of prayer, but up a rope made of names I swear I’ll never say again— each knot a vow, each loop a promise. The sky cracks like an egg; thunder flinches. Clouds part to watch the mess I’m about to make.
First I find the doorman to the heavens— the one with a clipboard and a halo too small for his head. He checks my grief like it’s a permit; I hand him a bruise and a name. He frowns, flips a page, tries to veto me. I step in close and whisper: “You work customer service for eternity? Poor you.” Then my fist meets marble and the bell rings, and the Pearly Gates swing off their hinges.
Wings beat like shutters; angels tilt their heads like bored referees. I dodge the choir— their harmonies can be lethal—and I keep walking. A goddess in linen offers incense; I snatch the censer, skein it into a rope, and swing. Her perfume tastes like paperwork; I cough it up into the wind and keep going.
Hallways mapped by myth— Olympus, Valhalla, the mailroom of miracles— I stride them all barefoot, dragging a trail of small rebellions. I pass Zeus in a robe, bored with thunder. I clap once and steal his lightning. “Borrowed,” I tell him. He blinks. Lightning in my palm feels heavy with apology. I throw it like a rope—no, like an apology turned projectile— toward the place where pain hides.
Ministers of fate try to lecture me on consequence. I read their contracts aloud and rip the margins out like ticker tape. “Fine print,” I say. “Fine for you. Not tonight.” One deity mutters something about hubris; I hand them a mirror. They don’t like their reflection.
The gods swell; the heavens tense, like neighborhoods preparing for a parade that never comes. I trade left hooks for liturgy— each punch rearranges a verse, each uppercut edits a line. Commandments rattle. Mythic laws become limericks under my knuckles. I bleed ink and the stars drink it and become quieter.
They call reinforcements— avatars, avatars with perfect hair and terrible customer service. I meet each one the same: a joke, a jab, a promise. “Your omnipotence has been outsourced,” I tell them. A Valkyrie grins; I say, “Not tonight,” and she drops her spear like it’s tired of being serious.
At the gate where they schedule tests, I find the migraine: a small, grey child with the world’s noise in its fists. It sits on a throne of buzzing radios, feeds on fluorescent hum. I kneel. Not a prayer this time—a plan. I cup the child’s head like a secret, whisper apologies I don’t deserve to say aloud. Then I punch a hole in the noise. It’s less dramatic than you think— a clean, surgical silence that smells like relief.
The gods holler. “You cannot—” they begin. I finish for them: “Watch me.” I gather their stubbornness, twist it, braid it into lullaby. Rewrite scripture? I do—one line at a time. Where they wrote tests, I write rest. Where they insisted on trial, I ink in mercy. Where they wrote cosmic riddles, I carve simple sleep.
A thunder god tries diplomacy— offers a crown if I’ll walk back. I toss it into the void; it clatters into oblivion like a coin with no value. “You keep the crown,” I tell him. “I’ll keep the quiet.” He sulks and the weather lightens.
Blood and starlight, sweat and scripture: the bargain smells like incense and victory. I do not conquer with conquest’s cruelty; I conquer with the small, stubborn insistence of care. I return the migraine to its box— soft, bound with my exhale— and hand it back to the universe with a receipt: PAID IN FULL — one love, nonrefundable.
When I climb down, the sky blinks as if it had only been napping. You sit in your quiet room with a blanket and a mug, blinking like an animal reintroduced to light. You laugh at me later—a small, breathy thing— because you always laugh when I swear and fight. I kiss the place behind your ear like I’m sealing the universe back in its proper frame.
Gods grumble; some edit their resumes. Angels gossip like old women about the loud mortal who would not hush. I don’t care. I come down with sore knuckles and a new psalm in my back pocket. It reads: She shall sleep. He shall never tire of saving her. We will not test what we cannot bear.
And if any deity asks, I say the same thing I said when I walked up: “listen here, you divine little prick— you might be God, but you got little-dick energy. Fight me if you want. Fight us if you have to. But know this: I love her. I will make the cosmos learn how to be gentle.”
You close your eyes and breathe. The migraine loosens its grip like a tired animal. You murmur a name and sleep folds you into it like a clean sheet. I stay awake for a while, fingers laced with that holy, ridiculous, furious calm— the kind that only comes after you’ve brawled with the architecture of the world for someone you love.
If you are interested in checking out more of my poetry, you can find it here—[The Library of Ashes]
Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You serves as a spiritual successor to a poem I shared back in June — a piece that spoke of wanting to be “the last one,” not the first. Where that poem lived in longing and quiet promise, this one lives in the present moment — in laughter, teasing, honesty, and connection.
It’s a reflection on how love, in its truest form, doesn’t always need to shout. Sometimes it’s enough to show up, to care openly, to let someone know that even the smallest moments are extraordinary because they are shared.
This piece, like so many before it, was written for the one who inspires the gentler parts of me — my muse who reminds me that being soft is not the same as being weak, that tenderness can be its own kind of rebellion.
She will know it’s her — she always does.
Inspired by the quiet moments that become extraordinary when shared with someone who truly sees you.
Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You Poetry by Rowan Evans
You laughed about him— he’s an asshole, you said— “Most guys are,” I replied, “I’d say I’m probably an exception… but some people might think I’m an asshole.” You didn’t hesitate. “No, you’re not.” And that was enough— a single truth, quiet but steady, like a hand on the small of my back when everything else wobbles.
Later, you startled me. “Omg, fuck,” you said, and my chest jumped before I even knew why. I told you, it’s okay—proof I care. You replied, “You don’t need proof. You know I know.” And the world shrank, everything else left behind except the way your words settled in my chest.
We talked about how he doesn’t really get you— how he’s always asking about the future when you just want to live in the moment. We talked about how his plans are boring as hell, how you’re aching for a thrill.
You said you’d tease him on the ferris wheel, your laugh filling the night, “I’d suffocate him with my boobies.” And without missing a beat, I said— “If he’s not up for it, I’ll take his place.” And it wasn’t bravado—it was instinct. Because being near you makes me brave in ways I didn’t know I could be.
You spoke of thrill rides— bungee jumps and wall climbs. “I’ve always wanted to try,” I admitted. “But it would take the right person, someone who could push me through.” You responded with one single word: “Me.” And just like that, fear felt smaller— the leap somehow possible if I took it with you.
I don’t need to be first. I don’t even need to be noticed yet. I just need to be the one who stays, who laughs at your jokes, who trembles when you almost make my heart stop, who shows up because you matter.
I will be that one. Not loud, not flashy. But here. Always here. Waiting for the ordinary moments that turn extraordinary because they are ours.
Roo’s poetry lives in the little things—moments that might seem ordinary but carry extraordinary weight. Penguin Pebbling is a celebration of the quiet, unwavering presence of love, the kind that lingers like sunlight on a pebble.
Even the smallest treasures can carry the greatest love—Roo the Poet, Penguin Pebbling.
Penguin Pebbling Poetry by Roo the Poet
I found a pebble by the sea, Smooth and bright, it spoke to me. Not in words, but something more— A feeling I just can’t ignore. It shimmered soft in golden light, Like how your laugh makes dark days bright. A tiny thing, yet strong and true, It made me think of only you.
So in my hands, I held it tight, A little gift that felt just right. Not grand, not rare, not shining gold, But love’s small story, softly told.
A penguin’s heart, a simple thing, Wrapped in pebbles, love takes wing. No diamonds, jewels, or silver bands, Just tiny treasures placed in hands.
So here’s my pebble, just for you, A token of the love I grew. For when I see the world so wide, It’s you who lingers, by my side.
Closing Note
May we all notice the small treasures life places in our hands, the subtle gestures that speak louder than words, and may our hearts remain open to the gentle magic of everyday love.
Go gently into the Hexverse
Whispers of Wonder | Roo the Poet A gentle invocation to the childlike spark within us all.
This piece was born from exhaustion, from the bone-deep ache of being the keeper of others’ ruins while my own remain untouched. It isn’t a prayer for rescue—it’s a confession that even when we splinter, we still speak, still love, still remain. Thank you for reading my broken gospel.
✦ Content & Care Advisory ✦
These words dwell in shadows of grief, loss, and the ache of unseen burdens. They speak of sorrow, despair, and the fragile pulse of the human heart. Read only if you feel steady, and remember—your safety, your breath, your life are sacred. You are not alone in the dark.
A gospel written in the language of fracture.
✦ Invocation ✦
Before you read, know this was never meant to save me. These words were built from splinters, stitched together by loneliness and the quiet ache of being unseen. If they cut, let them cut honest— for this gospel was written in the language of fracture.
Splinter Gospel Poetry by Rowan Evans
This depression
is pressin’
down on my lungs.
And I can’t breathe.
I gasp and gasp,
trying to grasp
any reason to stay alive—
when I just want to die.
I’m never enough.
Always too much.
My life is a constant
fucking contradiction,
a paradox—
I am always the shoulder,
never the lover—
always the one who stays,
but easily replaced.
I am the prayer they whisper
when loneliness gnaws,
but never the answer
they keep when dawn comes.
I am always the fixer,
the one who pieces them back together—
only to be left in the dust.
An afterthought.
I hold their ruins,
but no one holds mine.
A vessel for everyone’s ache—
but never a name they choose to keep.
Even knowing that—
I stick around.
It’s emotional masochism,
I crave the ache, so I—
I stay until I splinter,
then watch them leave,
carrying only the softness
I begged them to see.
✦ Benediction ✦
May your cracks speak louder than your silence. May your softness outlive those who failed to hold it. And if your gospel must splinter— let it still be yours, and yours alone.
Some poems arrive quietly, others wade out of the marsh, draped in memory and bone-deep ache.
Cathedral of Cattails & Confessions is a piece I wrote on a day when the past felt heavy—but instead of turning away, I chose to listen. It’s about the quiet holiness of persistence, the tenderness blooming in our broken places, and the stubborn, sacred act of remembering.
Even in ruin, we remain: tender, unyielding—cathedrals of our own confessions.
I hope this piece reminds someone (maybe you) that what the world calls “broken” can still cradle the sky’s reflection. 🖤
Cathedral of Cattails & Confessions Poetry by Rowan Evans
I march through the marsh in my mind, listening to whispers of yesterday’s regrets. Their voices cling like cattail seeds— soft, but stubborn, refusing to let go.
Each footstep sinks into sorrow, yet still, I keep moving— because even stagnant waters know how to cradle the sky’s reflection.
And the moon, twisting and stretching across ripples my footsteps create, reminds me: even in supposed brokenness, there is something beautiful to be seen.
Who’s to say what’s broken, anyway? Perhaps these cracks aren’t flaws, but fault lines where tenderness blooms— veins of silver and gold threaded through bone, places where dusk gathers its prayers.
Maybe the ache itself is holy, a testament etched in marrow and silt, proof that I dared to keep walking, ankle-deep in memory, knee-deep in grace— searching for tomorrow in the mirrored hush of still water.
And what if nothing is truly broken? What if these regrets are only lessons in disguise, and every scar, a story still warm with heartbeat? Maybe being bruised and cut isn’t defeat at all, but proof we dared to live in a world that can be so unforgiving.
And yes—there are nights I nearly sank, hands trembling with apologies I never spoke, words fossilized in the throat, prayers whispered to a God I’m not sure I believe in. Yet even then, my pulse betrayed me— stubborn, soft, unwilling to quiet.
And when the night leans close, I’ll wear my bruises like relics, let the reeds bow their heads in witness. For even in ruin, I remain— tender, unyielding, a cathedral of cattails and confessions, unbroken by the weight of my own remembering.
If this poem spoke to you, share your thoughts below or explore more of my work at The Library of Ashes. Stay tender. Stay defiant. 🌙🖤
For those who cry quietly in bathroom stalls. For those who apologize when they should have screamed. For those whose softness was mistaken for surrender— This gospel is yours. Your ache is sacred. Your tenderness is a war cry with petals in its mouth.
“Thirteen Psalms for the Tender-Hearted” Poetry by Rowan Evans
✦ These psalms are dedicated to ✦
✦ The boys who cry in secret. ✦ The girls who never stopped feeling. ✦ The queers, the witches, the warriors who bleed beauty into the dark.
This gospel is yours. Welcome home.
✦ Psalm I ✦ For the Ones Who Still Bloom
i am not a weapon. i am the wound that chose to bloom.
✦ Psalm II ✦ For the Boys Who Were Told to Be Brave
they taught him fists, but he offered flowers. they called him weak— but he never let the fire turn him cruel.
✦ Psalm III ✦ For the Girl Who Cries Easily
let them call it weakness— this ache i carry like a crown. i know it as worship.
✦ Psalm IV ✦ For the Boy With a Gentle Voice
he never raised his voice. so they never heard the thunder that lived in his quiet.
✦ Psalm V ✦ For the Ones Who Love Without Armor
my softness is not silence. it is thunder, made quiet for the sake of gentler ears.
✦ Psalm VI ✦ For the Survivors Who Still Say “I Love You”
the fire touched me too. but i still say “i love you” like a lullaby, not a warning.
✦ Psalm VII ✦ For the Ones Who Stayed Kind
some nights, i only survive by reading the poems i haven’t written yet.
✦ Psalm VIII ✦ For the Misnamed and Misunderstood
she told me i was too much. so i became everything.
✦ Psalm IX ✦ For the Sacred Masculine
he is not hard. he is holy. and his softness is scripture.
✦ Psalm X ✦ For the One Who Chose Love Again
they broke me and i still built a home with my hands full of splinters.
✦ Psalm XI ✦ For the Queer Ones Who Survived
we loved wrong, they said. but we loved true— and we survived without bitterness.
✦ Psalm XII ✦ For the Child Who Lives in You
you are not too sensitive. you are just fluent in the language of feeling. that is not a flaw— it’s your first tongue.
✦ Psalm XIII ✦ For You, Tender-Hearted One
your softness is not an accident. it is the last sacred thing they cannot take.
✦ Final Benediction ✦
May your softness remain. Even when it’s heavy. Even when it’s mocked. Even when the world calls it a wound.
May you remember: You are not weak. You are woven from wonder. You are made of fire and mercy and ink. And you are still—still—holy.
Which psalm resonated with you most? Leave your blessing below.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 