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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: trauma

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • The 13 Mirrored Gospels | A Liturgy for the Twisted Reflections of Self — Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    🖤 Author’s Note 🖤

    Each of these gospels was born from a silence I refused to keep. The 13 Mirrored Gospels is my reckoning with faith, identity, and the inherited wounds of expectation. These are not sermons for the saved — they are psalms for the broken, whispered through smoke and mirrorlight.

    Read carefully.

    The smoke is watching.

    A dimly lit gothic altar with candles, smoke, and shattered mirrors — representing “The 13 Mirrored Gospels” by Rowan Evans.
    Read carefully. The smoke is always watching.

    🖤 The 13 Mirrored Gospels 🖤
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    “There are no saints in these gospels—
    only shadows that learned to speak.”
    — Rowan Evans

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    I. The Gospel of Mirrors

    Step inside.
    Watch yourself rot in reverse.
    Every smile you wore as armor,
    now bleeding at the edges.
    The mirror never lied.
    You just kept asking the wrong questions.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    II. The Gospel of Silence

    Not the silence of peace—
    the silence after impact.
    The quiet that follows
    when every scream is spent,
    and all that’s left
    is the echo of your own denial.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    III. The Gospel of Golden Lies

    They dipped their cruelty in gold leaf
    and called it kindness.
    They said “light saves”
    while tightening the noose.
    Shine is not salvation.
    Shine is strategy.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    IV. The Gospel of the Sainted Wound

    She told me pain makes you beautiful.
    So I made myself a masterpiece.
    Now they can’t look at me
    without flinching.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    V. The Gospel of Velvet Ruin

    I dressed my rage in elegance—
    because pretty things bleed quieter.
    Because if I scream in silk,
    they call it poetry,
    not proof.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    VI. The Gospel of the Haloed Knife

    They told me love was soft.
    So when I bled, I thought I was wrong.
    Turns out, some loves
    come serrated.
    Turns out, mine did too.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    VII. The Gospel of the Unknown Reflection

    The mirror shows my face,
    but it isn’t me—
    just a shadow stitched from language,
    from names that never fit.

    They told me what to be:
    man, believer, saved—
    but I only felt the ache
    between those words.

    Now even silence
    flinches.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    VIII. The Gospel of Smoke-Laced Psalms

    I wrote devotion in ash,
    but they wanted ink.
    So I choked on incense
    until my prayers tasted like
    what they’d believe.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    IX. The Gospel of Unholy Softness

    I offered tenderness.
    They saw weakness.
    I offered truth.
    They called it unstable.
    So now I offer nothing
    but teeth.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    X. The Gospel of Reverse Reverence

    I bowed to nothing—
    not out of pride,
    but protection.
    Every altar I’ve knelt before
    asked for a piece of me.
    I’ve run out of offerings.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    XI. The Gospel of Misnamed Miracles

    They called my survival
    a phase.
    A scream for attention.
    But I was just trying
    to exist loud enough
    to feel real.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    XII. The Gospel of Heretics and Honey

    I tasted joy once.
    Sweet. Brief.
    But it rotted faster than grief.
    I keep it in a jar now,
    like a dead bee.
    Just in case.

    𖤐𓆩 🜏 𓆪𖤐

    XIII. The Gospel of the Flame That Didn’t Save Me

    They said fire cleanses.
    But all it did
    was remind me
    what burning feels like
    from the inside.

    More Gospels, Psalms & Riddles

    The Gospel of Softness III: Thirteen Psalms for the Tender-Hearted

    13 Psalms of Falling: A Sapphic Confessional Litany of Softness & Sacred Ruin

    13 Riddles for the Starborn Child

    XIII Psalms for the Goddess in My Mouth

  • Still Here –  A Poem About Suicidal Thoughts, Survival, and Hope

    Rowan Evans

    [Content Warning]
    This poem includes references to suicidal thoughts and mental health struggles.
    Please read with care and know that support is always available.
    If you are in crisis, please reach out to someone—or to me directly. 💜

    You are not alone. Your pain is real. Your survival is sacred.

    [Intro]
    This is one of the hardest poems I’ve ever written—and maybe one of the most important.
    It’s for anyone who’s ever stood on the edge, feeling like no one could reach them.
    It’s about survival, memory, and the quiet miracle of being still here.
    If you’re reading this and hurting, know this:
    You’re not alone. And I’m not going anywhere.

    “Still Here”

    I’ve thought about it,
    a time or two.
    about what I would do,
    if you ever failed to get through—

    To pierce the fog in my mind,
    if there wasn’t a single reason I could find,
    to stay, to hold on just a little longer—
    as I stood on the ledge,
    overlooking the ocean’s edge.

    I swore I’d never let it get to this point,
    I would fight to keep from losing myself,
    but I slipped, tripped and got lost along the way.

    Wandering through my mind scape,
    trying to find an escape—
    trying to have an S on my chest and a red cape.

    But I’m not a hero,
    just a person with too much heart
    and not enough quiet.

    Still, I write.
    Still, I breathe.
    Still, I wait for your voice
    to cut through the dark, a lighthouse
    leading me through the storm fog.

    Because if you ever stopped reaching,
    I don’t know if I’d remember
    how to swim.

    So I clutch these memories
    like life perservers—
    your laugh, your light,
    the way you once told me
    I was more than the weight I carry.

    And I whisper back,
    even when you can’t hear me—

    I’m trying,
    I’m still here.
    Hanging by a thread,
    sometimes curious
    about the taste of lead.
    But no longer do I wish I were dead.

    So I plead, so I never slip again—

    Please.
    Keep calling me home.

    [Author’s Note]
    If you’re feeling suicidal, please—reach out.
    To a trusted friend, a family member, a professional.
    Or, if those feel too close… too complicated…

    Reach out to me.

    You don’t have to go through this alone.
    You matter.
    Your voice matters.
    And I will hold space for you.

    rowan@poetrybyrowanevans.com

    With all my heart,
    – Rowan