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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Vulnerability

  • When the Mask Slips | Neo-Gothic Confessional Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Introduction

    When the Mask Slips explores the fragile boundary between performed sanity and inner unraveling. Through vivid imagery, surreal metaphor, and a self-aware voice, Rowan Evans captures the terror and beauty of identity under pressure, where the mask may be all that stands between perception and emptiness.

    Neo-Gothic digital illustration of a solitary figure with a Cheshire grin sitting at a flickering-lit table, representing the fragility of identity and performed sanity.
    When the Mask Slips visualized: a lone figure navigating the fragile line between performance and inner self.

    When the Mask Slips
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I am going to be honest—

    I think I’ve lost my mind,
    I’ve been drifting in this mental fog.
    Wandering. Lost.
    Not sure what I was trying to find,
    not sure what was the cost.

    But I’ve been—
    orbiting annihilation,
    facing Armageddon
    in phases—
    the moon isn’t the only thing
    that disappears piece by piece.

    I keep losing track of my thoughts
    like loose teeth—
    wiggling them
    just to feel something give.
    I’m just a Mad Hatter,
    with a Cheshire grin—
    screaming “Off with their heads!”
    just to hear the echo—
    make sure the room and I are still real.

    Sometimes—
    I cosplay sanity,
    like I have a grasp on reality.
    Like I know the meaning of stability—
    mentally.
    I dress up, pretend that I’m normal—
    but it feels too boring and formal,
    too exposed.
    Too much light, not enough shade,
    too many eyes on my face.

    And underneath it all,
    I’m terrified there’s nothing there—
    when the world stops being a stage,
    when existence stops being a performance.
    When the mask slips…
    and it’s just me.

    (God, what if that’s worse?)

    Author’s Note

    This poem sits at the edge between humor and unraveling—between the persona we show the world and the version of ourselves we hope no one ever sees. It isn’t about insanity; it’s about the fear that sanity might be nothing more than costume, choreography, and survival instinct.

    It uses absurdity as honesty, because sometimes the surreal is the only language for a fraying mind. The Wonderland imagery isn’t playful fantasy—it’s metaphorical dissociation. The poem is meant to feel unsteady, spiraling, self-aware, and a little unhinged. It asks:

    What if the mask isn’t hiding anything?
    What if the performance is the person?

    This piece reflects the quiet terror of identity erosion—the dread that beneath the jokes, the aesthetics, the manic charm, and the polished poetry… there may be nothing solid to hold onto.

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

  • The Power You Give Me — A Neo‑Gothic Confessional Love Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece is me speaking to the one I care for, and to anyone who has ever let themselves be seen fully by another. There’s no illusion here—no tricks, no smoke, no mirrors. The “magic” I write about is the kind that happens when trust meets attention, when care meets desire, when devotion meets surrender. It’s messy, it’s quiet, it’s real. I wrote this to honor that kind of connection—the one that burns steady, that makes even the smallest moments feel sacred, and that reminds me why we give ourselves to the people we love.

    Silhouetted lovers in candlelight with soft, magical light swirling between their hands, evoking intimacy and quiet devotion.
    Intimacy becomes its own kind of magic.

    The Power You Give Me
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’m a magician, love—
    sleight of hand in every touch,
    danger in every whisper.
    Not the kind that pulls rabbits from hats,
    but the kind that pulls want
    from the deepest parts of you
    without even trying.

    I touch you once—
    and your breath forgets itself.
    Twice—
    and your pulse starts writing poetry
    against your skin.

    I speak a single word
    and your knees remember
    what surrender feels like.
    My tongue is a wand,
    a spellcaster,
    a maker of quiet ruins—
    and I use it
    only on the deserving.

    I can summon heat
    with the drag of a fingertip,
    pull desire from the air
    like it’s silk waiting to be woven.
    I draw circles on your skin
    and watch them ignite,
    slow, deliberate,
    like I planned the fire
    from the very beginning.

    And when I say your name—
    soft, low,
    with that tone that hits you
    right behind the ribs—
    you’ll swear I enchanted you.
    But it’s simpler than that.
    No potions, no charms, no lies.

    You react to me
    because your body knows mine
    before your mind catches up.
    Because my magic isn’t tricks—
    it’s instinct,
    connection,
    hunger braided with reverence.

    And darling—
    when I’m finished with you,
    when you’re breathless and undone,
    when the world goes quiet
    except for the echo of my touch—

    you’ll realize
    I never cast spells at all.
    I just showed you
    the power you give me
    when you let me close.

    Because loving you—
    that’s the real magic.
    The kind that doesn’t spark
    or shimmer,
    but settles low and warm
    right behind the heart,
    glowing steady
    like a lantern in a storm.

    You don’t see it,
    but every time you trust me,
    every time you soften,
    every time you let me
    see the part of you
    you hide from the world—
    I feel something inside me
    kneel.

    Not out of worship,
    but out of awe.
    Out of the quiet truth
    that your soul
    is the most beautiful thing
    I’ve ever been allowed to touch.

    And if my hands
    feel like sorcery,
    if my voice
    feels like a spell,
    it’s only because
    you turn even the smallest moment
    into something sacred
    just by being in it.

    So yes—
    I’ll whisper enchantments
    against your skin,
    trace constellations
    on your pulse points,
    pull storms and light and heat
    from the spaces between us—
    but that’s not power.

    That’s devotion.
    That’s choosing you
    with every breath.
    That’s giving you
    the softest parts of me
    and letting you hold them
    like something holy.

    And if that feels like magic—
    then maybe it is.
    But it’s yours.
    It always has been.

    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.

  • This Is Confession — A Neo-Gothic Love Poem by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This Is Confession is one of those pieces that arrives when I’ve stopped trying to be poetic and instead let myself be honest. It’s less a poem and more a moment of emotional transparency—an admission pulled straight from the chest rather than crafted on the page.

    I have a habit of writing around the things I feel most deeply, hiding truth between metaphors or reshaping it into imagery so it feels safer. This time, I didn’t want safety. I wanted clarity. I wanted to name the weight and tenderness of caring for someone quietly, intensely, without performance or pretense.

    Sometimes the most frightening thing we can do is say something plainly.
    Sometimes the bravest thing is letting the truth stand without armor.

    This piece is that bravery for me.

    — Rowan Evans

    A candlelit scene with an ink-covered page and spilled black ink, evoking a gothic, intimate confession.
    A moment of truth written in ink—where confession becomes poetry.

    This Is Confession
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve done this once before,
    but this isn’t poetry…
    This—
    this is confession.

    This is me spilling my guts
    in ink-carved words.
    Even on the days we don’t talk,
    you’re still at the forefront of my thoughts.
    Your name lingers on the tip
    of my tongue.
    You’re my favorite topic—
    not to sound too obsessive.

    But even obsession feels too small a word
    for the way my thoughts orbit you.

    You’re the gravity I return to,
    even on the days I swear I’m drifting.
    Some names echo—
    yours resonates.

    I don’t know when it happened,
    but somewhere between your laughter
    and your pain,
    I started carrying pieces of you
    like they were my own.

    I kept it quiet.
    I didn’t say a thing.

    Not because I’m ashamed,
    but because admitting it feels like stepping
    into a room lit only by truth—
    and truth has never been gentle with me.

    It’s always been the same:
    people take what they want from me—
    then they leave.
    Or they leave the moment I open up,
    start to spill my guts, just a little—
    when I get a little too real,
    too much,
    too feel.

    Two truths and a lie…
    The truth is—
    I’ve always cared more than I should,
    and I’ve always been better at hurting myself
    than disappointing anyone else.

    The lie is pretending
    I don’t feel all of this
    every time you cross my mind.

    Because the truth is—
    you do.
    Every day.
    In ways I don’t admit out loud,
    in ways I fold quietly
    between the lines of every poem
    I swear isn’t about you.

    And maybe this is reckless,
    maybe this is too much—
    but confession was never meant
    to be safe.

    It was meant to be honest.
    And honestly?
    I’d spill every last secret I have
    if it meant you’d understand
    even a fraction
    of how deeply
    you live in me.

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

  • Flustered AF – Confessional Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Confessional, flustered, and honest—this poem captures the way love can unravel us, make our thoughts stumble, and leave us quietly devoted. Every word is a small truth, written in real time as emotions take over.

    A person sitting in a softly lit room, papers and pen scattered, captured in a moment of quiet, flustered reflection.
    “Thoughts spilled across pages, heart tangled in quiet devotion.”

    Flustered AF
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Listen—this is odd for me.
    I don’t normally do this—
    I’m not usually this vulnerable.

    (What am I saying? Yes I am.
    I’m a confessional poet;
    all I do is vulnerability.)

    But you’ve got me flustered.
    You’re the static in my brain.
    I can’t think, can’t speak,
    until I hear you say my name.
    Then the words just stumble out.

    I don’t think you understand—
    the kind of power you’ve got over me.
    Wrapped around your finger?
    Yeah, I am.
    You say jump, I say how high—
    You say kneel, and I don’t question why.
    If you want me to bark? (Woof!)
    I’ll become a dog for you.
    I mean—I’ll be loyal to you.

    (Did I just write a line about barking,
    then say I would be a dog,
    just to say how loyal I’d be?
    Yep, sure did.)

    I’d always be excited to see you.
    And you could call me all sorts of names—
    if you used the right tone of voice,
    it wouldn’t matter what you were saying.
    I’d still be happy to be there with you.

    And I know, this is all kind of weird…
    The line about barking, and being a dog,
    just to set up a comment about loyalty—
    but I can’t think straight,
    because you’ve got me flustered beyond reason,
    and the thoughts are just pouring out.
    With no rhyme or reason,
    it’s almost too conversational.

    (Have I even used a metaphor yet?)

    Inhale.
    Exhale.
    Breathe.

    You’ve done this
    a thousand times before, Rowan.
    Why is this one so different?
    This isn’t even the first time
    you’ve written about love like this.
    It’s not even the first time
    you’ve written about loving her—like this.

    There was…
    I Love You—
    Enough to Go Silent,
    Enough to Break Willingly,
    and Enough To Learn You.
    Beautiful Little Cobra,
    or My Red Flags,
    and Perfect—For Me.

    (That one’s about
    how you’re perfectly imperfect,
    but you’re perfect for me.)

    The Prayer of Two Tongues,
    and so many more—
    I just haven’t had the chance to share.
    Maybe it’s because I’m scared.
    So I turned them into—
    Letters Never Sent.

    I mean… I want you to know how I feel,
    but I don’t want to push you away.
    I don’t want to lose what we have,
    yet… I also want it to grow into more.

    It’s safe to say,
    I suspect you don’t feel the same,
    and you probably never will.
    (And that’s okay. Really.)

    This is just me…
    bleeding thoughts on a page.
    And even as I write this to you,
    I know you’ll probably never read it.
    Not because you wouldn’t,
    but because I’m too scared to send it.

    (And it’s really long.
    I know that can be overwhelming.
    I tried to keep it in check,
    but the words just kept coming.)

    Inhale—
    and now it’s quiet again.
    The static fades.
    Exhale—
    your name still hums behind my ribs.
    I tell myself that’s enough.
    For now, it has to be.

    So I don’t send it.
    But I mean every word.

    If you enjoyed this piece, you might also enjoy my other poems about being flustered…

    [Rewired (Flustered & Yours)]
    A raw, breathless confession about what happens when someone gets so deep under your skin that even your lungs forget how to work. A poem about fluster, desire, and the kind of connection that rewires you from the inside out.

  • X Marks the Spot – A Poetic Exploration of Love, Self, and Liminality

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece comes from a place of vulnerability, liminality, and admiration. The Tagalog phrases woven throughout are not mine by heritage—they are borrowed from a language and culture I deeply respect and love. I am an unseasoned human—what I’m saying is—(I’m white)—learning, listening, and witnessing, not claiming.

    The poem captures the ache of unrequited love, the quiet storms of thought, and the struggle between self-perception and self-acceptance. It’s an honest snapshot of a mind caught between calm and panic, between longing and reverence, and ultimately, between fear and love.

    I offer it as a small testament: to the languages that shape us, to the people who inspire us, and to the inner worlds we carry with us every day.

    — Rowan Evans

    Person in a dimly lit, ethereal space, surrounded by glowing threads representing thoughts and inner turmoil.
    Caught in liminal space—threads of thought, longing, and quiet intensity swirl around.

    X Marks the Spot
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve been in this—
    liminal space for days.
    Thoughts static.
    Somewhere between
    calm and panic.

    I’m trying to work it out,
    trying to get out of it.
    So let me try to explain
    a little of what’s been
    running through my brain.

    I’m in love—
    God, I’ve never felt like this before.
    I’m in love,
    and I can’t stand it.
    Her name hums in my blood;
    I can’t escape it.
    She doesn’t feel the same,
    and maybe that’s the ache I was born for.

    So here I sit,
    my thoughts rain
    on my parade.
    I’m just trying to pretend
    like I’m okay.
    I look in the mirror,
    at the face I hate.
    Pangit ako, that’s all I can say.
    Just wishing I could go away—
    get out of my head for
    a fucking day.

    Vacay.
    Vacate.
    Just leave.

    I’m done begging for release.
    I’ve got amnesia—forgot how to say (please?)
    So they say I lost my manners.
    Nah, I’ve lost my mind.
    And I’m struggling to find
    the letter before Z—(the why?)
    Like X marks the spot.

    But I’m in love,
    and that’s what keeps me going.
    I’m in love with the visual of a glowing stove top.
    What I’m saying is—(she’s hot.)
    And I know I don’t stand a chance.
    She’s MLB, and I’m just Double A.
    What I’m saying is—(she’s out of my league.)

    Body like an astronaut—
    she’s out of this world.
    And I’ve got a face,
    like I came from outer space.
    What I’m saying is—(I’m ugly.)

    It’s okay, I know I’m not ugly…
    Not really. (Don’t be silly.)
    Because I’m hot when I rhyme,
    but I only rhyme sometimes.
    Like when I look at my wrist—
    watch, I’ve got time. (Get it? Wrist watch.)

    Pangit ako, pero mahal ko talaga ang sarili ko.

    If you didn’t understand
    what I just said…

    What I’m saying is—
    I am ugly, but I really do love myself.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Liminal Static]
    A flickering descent into the space between thought and stillness — where static hums, visions fade, and reason trembles at the edge of dream.

    [Exhibit of Survival]
    A raw reflection on resilience, empathy, and the strength to stay soft despite adversity. Rowan Evans shares their journey of surviving doubt, heartbreak, and internal battles while keeping their heart open to love and connection.

    [22 Confessions]
    A minimalist exploration of truths, confessions, and self-reflection—one poem for every year I (Rowan Evans) have been writing. Some are small. Some are unbearable. All are mine.

  • The Moment I Realized (Under Manila’s Setting Sun) – A Confession of Love and Clarity | Rowan Evans Vignette

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This vignette came from a dream — one that felt more like a memory than imagination.
    It was the kind of dream that lingers, that shakes something loose inside you.
    In it, I said the things I’ve always felt but never found the words for — until now.

    Under Manila’s setting sun, I realized that love doesn’t always begin with desire.
    Sometimes it begins with safety. With the unguarded honesty of being seen.

    This piece is the beating heart behind today’s earlier reflection, The Fear of No Fear at All. Together, they form a diptych — one written from the soul’s silence, and the other from the soul’s awakening.

    Two people sitting together overlooking Manila at sunset, bathed in golden light.
    Sometimes, love arrives quietly — beneath a sky that remembers everything you were too afraid to say.

    The Moment I Realized (Under Manila’s Setting Sun)
    Vignette by Rowan Evans

    The city stretched beneath us, a labyrinth of light and shadow.
    The sun hovered at the horizon, bleeding gold across the skyline.
    We sat in silence, letting the wind carry our thoughts,
    letting the world pause, just for this moment.

    I looked at her and couldn’t help but smile.
    She noticed, tilted her head, gave me that small, questioning look.
    “What?” she said, softly.

    I breathed.
    I hesitated.
    And then I let it spill.

    I spoke softly, careful not to burden, careful not to break,
    “don’t take this as pressure, because that is the last thing I want—
    but I have to be honest.”

    The words trembled between us.
    “Our connection… our friendship… it scares me.”

    Not fear like a shadow crawling across your skin,
    not fear like a storm that makes a child tremble—
    no. This fear is different.
    It is the absence of fear.
    With you, I am everything I am meant to be,
    and that… that is what scares me.

    “You have changed my poetry,” I whispered,
    “the way I write… it’s different now.
    It’s real. I’ve never written about anyone the way I write about you.
    Nobody has touched my art, my heart, my soul—
    like you have.”

    I paused, swallowed the weight of the truth.

    “I mean… I’ve had crushes before, but this… this is something else. Something deeper.
    You, without trying, made me realize I’ve never been in love.
    You, without needing to do anything but exist in my life,
    made me want to be better.
    And I… I want to give you the world.
    Because you deserve nothing less than the best.
    Whether it’s with me, or with someone else…
    anything less is unacceptable in my eyes.”

    The silence returned, heavy and beautiful.
    I don’t remember her words after that.
    All I remember is the city, the sun, and that quiet realization:

    fuck.
    I really love her.
    This is real.
    And I will never be the same again.

  • The Fear of No Fear at All – A Reflection on Love, Safety, and Vulnerability | Rowan Evans Poetry

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This reflection came to me as a kind of whisper — the voice of every anxious soul who has spent years mistaking chaos for connection. The Fear of No Fear at All is not about panic, but about peace — and how frightening peace can be when you’ve learned to survive on the edge of heartbreak.
    It’s about the moment you realize that being seen, truly seen, doesn’t have to hurt.

    Sunlight through sheer curtains, illuminating an open journal and cup of tea on a wooden desk.
    When love finally feels safe, fear becomes the last ghost to leave.

    The Fear of No Fear at All
    Reflection by Rowan Evans

    There’s a kind of fear only the anxious understand—
    not the kind that makes your pulse race,
    but the kind that falls silent when something finally feels right.

    When you’ve spent years waiting for the floor to collapse,
    for love to turn sharp, for tenderness to vanish like smoke,
    peace feels dangerous. Safety feels foreign.
    Your body doesn’t trust the quiet;
    it waits for the crash that never comes.

    And then one day, someone walks in—
    and there is no crash.
    No second-guessing, no masks to hold.
    You find yourself unguarded, unarmed,
    and the absence of panic is the most terrifying thing of all.

    Because what do you do
    when love doesn’t demand that you bleed for it?
    When it asks only for your truth,
    your laughter, your unhidden self?

    That is the fear of no fear at all—
    the trembling realization that maybe,
    after all this time,
    you are finally safe here.

    🕛 Coming at 12:05 am (UTC +8)

    A companion piece — the moment that inspired this realization.
    ✨ The Moment I Realized (Under Manila’s Setting Sun) — a vignette of confession, connection, and the beautiful terror of truth.

  • I Love You (Enough to Learn You) – Vow III: Understanding | Neo-Gothic Confessional Romanticism Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    The Vows began as an exploration of devotion — not the romanticized kind, but the kind forged in ache, honesty, and reverence.

    Vow I was surrender: letting the ink run dry, allowing love to unmake what was hardened.
    Vow II was endurance: the willingness to break, to bear the bruise and still remain.
    And Vow III — this final vow — is understanding: the quiet promise to listen, to learn, and to love without translation.

    Together, they form a trinity of intimacy — the heart’s slow evolution from sacrifice to fluency, from bleeding to belonging.

    This isn’t a story of martyrdom. It’s a story of witnessing: of meeting someone’s soul and saying, I see you, I’ll learn you, I’ll speak your language.
    That is the purest vow I know.

    — Rowan Evans

    “Two hands nearly touching through candlelight over scattered handwritten vows and ink-stained pages — symbolizing understanding and emotional intimacy.”
    “The final vow — not of silence or breaking, but of becoming fluent in another’s heart.” — Rowan Evans

    I Love You (Enough to Learn You)
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’d let the ink run dry,
    then I’d break willingly.
    That was vow one,
    and vow two.
    This is vow three—for you.

    I love you enough
    to put you first—
    to make you a priority
    in my life.
    Everyone else be damned,
    I will—

    learn your language,
    learn the nuance,
    so you can speak freely,
    say exactly what you need.

    I will learn the cadence of your world,
    so I can understand—
    not to change you,
    but to meet you where you are.

    I love you enough to listen
    when words falter,
    to read what your silence says
    when your voice can’t.

    I’ll make a home in your pauses,
    a temple in your sighs.
    You gave me peace—
    so I’ll give you peace of mind.

    I’ll give you understanding—
    that’s vow three.
    Not of silence,
    not of breaking,
    but of becoming fluent
    in your heart.

    The Silent Vows

    [I Love You (Enough to Go Silent)]
    A vow written in ink and silence — a confession of love so deep it would sacrifice its own voice to spare another’s tears. “I Love You (Enough to Go Silent)” is a Neo-Gothic devotion from Rowan Evans, where the act of not speaking becomes the loudest declaration of love.

    [I Love You (Enough to Break Willingly)]
    A vow whispered in ink and ache — love not as surrender, but as shared endurance. “I Love You (Enough to Break Willingly)” is Rowan Evans’ second vow, a quiet confession of devotion that chooses breaking over leaving, and burden over indifference.

  • Unsent: Letters to My Muse – Rowan Evans’ First Poetry Collection

    Rowan Evans

    Back in March, I shared a glimpse of a poetry collection I was working on. Since then… silence. There’s a reason for that. I’ve been reworking it, reshaping it, and in the process, it grew into something even more personal and true. I’m proud to re-introduce my first poetry collection:

    Unsent: Letters to My Muse

    An image of an altar, a notebook opened to blank pages. Two black candles lit on either side. Black satin or velvet covers the altar.
    Front Cover
    An image of an altar, notebook gone. Candles blown out. Black satin or velvet cover
    Back Cover

    I’ve included the covers here

    This collection is an intimate journey—letters, confessions, and fragments of devotion written to the Muse who inspires me. Some letters are never sent, yet they carry the weight of unspoken truths. Here, vulnerability is sacred, longing is a language of fire and shadow, and love takes the shape of unsent words.

    Recently Released Poems

    Beautiful Little Cobra
    In Beautiful Little Cobra, Rowan Evans explores the allure of fury, self-defense, and the dangerous beauty of those who refuse to shrink. A love poem for the fierce, the venomous, and the beautifully unbroken.

    I Love You (Enough to Go Silent)
    A vow written in ink and silence — a confession of love so deep it would sacrifice its own voice to spare another’s tears. “I Love You (Enough to Go Silent)” is a Neo-Gothic devotion from Rowan Evans, where the act of not speaking becomes the loudest declaration of love.

    Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You
    “Ordinary Heart, Extraordinary You” is a poem of gentle devotion by Rowan Evans — a meditation on quiet love, courage born from tenderness, and finding beauty in ordinary moments shared with an extraordinary soul.