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Poetry by Rowan Evans

Tag: Vulnerability

  • Working Toward Us | A Poem About Patience, Love, and Becoming

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This piece came from that subtle shift — the moment when someone stops being just a presence in your life and starts becoming a direction. It’s about the quiet work that happens behind the scenes, the way you start rearranging your habits, your thoughts, your intentions, not because you’re trying to impress someone, but because you genuinely want to meet them where they are.

    It’s not a confession.
    It’s not a promise.
    It’s an acknowledgment.

    A recognition that connection isn’t built in grand gestures, but in patience, consistency, and the willingness to grow into someone who can hold another person’s trust. This poem is me naming that process — the slow, steady movement toward “us,” whatever shape that eventually takes.

    Two people walking side by side on a quiet city street at sunset, symbolizing patience, trust, and growing connection.
    Sometimes love isn’t a leap — it’s a steady walk in the same direction.

    Working Toward Us
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    It’s strange,
    the way things can change—
    the way a single person
    can make you want to
    rearrange everything.

    Isn’t it strange?

    The way someone can
    sit right there
    on the tip of the
    tongue.

    Isn’t it something?

    When every word
    spoken
    becomes a love token,
    simply because
    it carries a piece of them too.

    And every word written
    takes the shape
    of her silhouette.
    Because when my pen
    hits the page,
    it’s like a brush
    dancing across canvas.

    I try to capture
    the beautiful hues
    of a soul in motion,
    with nothing but ink
    and observation.
    Learning everything I can
    through conversation.
    I want to understand…

    I’m patient.

    But I want you to know,
    I’m working toward us—
    whatever shape that takes,
    I want to be
    somebody
    you can truly trust.
    Somebody
    you can lean on
    when things get
    a little too rough.

    I’m working toward
    you and I, walking
    the same streets.
    You and I, side by side
    enjoying life.

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

  • Two Words: A Poem About Vulnerability, Consent, and Letting Go

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem came from a moment I didn’t expect—where wanting something and resisting it existed at the same time. It’s about consent without force, surrender without demand, and the strange vulnerability of realizing how easily someone can reach you simply by asking

    Two figures standing close together in soft light, conveying quiet emotional intimacy and vulnerability.
    Sometimes surrender isn’t taken—it’s given.

    Two Words
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I’ve never felt like this before—
    never felt this loss of control.

    Two words
    and I can’t stop it.
    Two words
    and I just speak.

    That’s all it takes for me.
    I get a thought,
    I hint at the thought—
    Say it, she said.

    So I said it.

    I didn’t want to.
    She didn’t make me.
    She just asks
    and I fold.

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

  • The Thread That Led Me Home | A Poem About Memory, Fog, and Finding Your Way Back

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    I’d been stuck in my head for days—looping memories, fogged thoughts, the usual spiral.

    Then I had a dream.

    In it, someone I care deeply about cut through the noise in the bluntest, most effective way possible. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t poetic. But it worked.

    This poem came from that moment—the realization that sometimes the way forward isn’t overthinking, but following the one thread that still feels steady.

    Even through the fog.

    A glowing thread leads through foggy woods toward a softly lit clearing at night, symbolizing guidance and emotional connection.
    Sometimes the way out of your head is just one honest thread—and the courage to follow it.

    The Thread That Led Me Home
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    The fog rolls over hills,
    and a chill clings
    to my mind.
    Memories linger
    in flickering fragments,
    clinging static—
    the kind that hums
    behind the eyes,
    buzzing with moments
    I thought I buried
    but never really left.

    They circle back—
    whispers caught
    between stations,
    half-formed voices
    I almost recognize
    but can’t quiet name.
    Threads of memory
    tangled in the mist,
    pulling me back
    to places
    I never meant to revisit.

    I stumble through playgrounds,
    bumping off walls
    as I march down the hall.
    A single thread,
    I’ve begun to follow—
    It leads through memory,
    after memory.
    Twisting and turning,
    it knots—
    and I pause,
    fingers trembling
    over the tangle,
    wondering what unravels
    if I pull too hard.

    I run fingers
    over threads.
    Gripping soft,
    pulling slow—
    I watch
    as the string
    slips free—
    and it hums,
    like it’s guiding me.

    So I follow.

    Step after step,
    one foot
    in front
    of the other.
    I step and stumble
    through fog,
    thick as my thoughts.
    And when
    I feel lost,
    my fingers tighten
    grabbing the string
    like a lifeline.
    It’s the only guide
    through my mind.

    I stumble through,
    snapping twigs
    and branches.
    The rustle of
    rotting leaves
    under feet,
    until I see it.
    A light,
    a clearing.
    And when I reach it,
    when I find
    the strings conclusion—
    what do I see?

    You.
    A smile.
    Home.

    Closing Note

    Yesterday’s poem was about the weight of memory. This one is about the moment something — or someone — breaks through that weight. Not to fix it, not to erase it, but to remind me that I don’t have to walk through the fog alone.

    Journey into the Hexverse

    [Memory Lane Has No Exit]
    With my birthday approaching, I found myself trapped inside my mind—wandering memory lane, revisiting love, loss, and the moments that built me. This poem is a reflection on betrayal, survival, and the quiet realization that drifting isn’t the same as healing.

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

  • Between Sun & Shore: A Poem About Healing, Love, and Becoming Whole

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Between Sun & Shore was written in February of last year, during a season where I was learning what it felt like to be seen gently instead of weathered. It came from a place of quiet awe—of realizing that sometimes love doesn’t arrive like a storm, but like warmth. Like light finding its way through the cracks you thought would always stay broken.

    This poem is about that in-between space: where grief softens, where healing begins, where you are no longer only the tide or the storm—but something new, something held. It’s about the moment you realize that someone hasn’t come to save you… they’ve come to grow beside you.

    Golden sunrise over a calm shoreline with soft waves and two distant figures standing in quiet closeness.
    Where storms soften and light learns your name.

    Between Sun & Shore
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I once drifted like a wayward tide,
    Lost in the waves, nowhere to hide.
    Storms had carved their name in me,
    Each scar a tale, each wound a sea.

    Then you arrived—a golden ray,
    Like sunrise spilling into the bay.

    Your voice, a hymn the wind would weave,
    Soft as the hum of the monsoon’s reprieve.
    You traced my ruins, stone by stone,
    And turned them into sacred homes.

    Now every ripple speaks your name,
    Each whispered breeze, each dancing flame.

    Like sampaga’s quiet grace,
    You bloom where sorrow left its trace.
    Between Sun and Shore, love grew—
    A bridge of light, leading to you.

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

  • Can You Sit With Yourself? | A Poem About Self-Confrontation and Inner Truth

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    Sometimes the hardest place to be is alone with your own thoughts.
    Not distracted. Not performing. Not numbed.
    Just you—unfiltered, unguarded, uncomfortably present.

    This piece isn’t about self-love as a slogan.
    It’s about self-confrontation.
    About whether you can remain seated when there’s no one left to impress, no one left to blame, and no one left to lean on.

    Because growth doesn’t begin when things feel good.
    It begins when you stop running.

    — Rowan Evans

    A solitary person sitting quietly in a dim room, symbolizing self-reflection and inner confrontation.
    Sometimes the hardest company to keep is your own.

    Can You Sit With Yourself?
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    Can you sit
    with yourself?
    Not on a pedestal,
    not on a shelf—
    can you fucking
    sit with your
    self?

    In your thoughts,
    in your mind—
    can you wander,
    can you stroll,
    or would you be
    troubled
    by what you find?

    Would you bend,
    or break—
    could you carry
    the weight?

    Fight the urge
    to turn,
    to run.

    Could you stay…

    or would you be
    troubled
    enough
    to leave?

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

  • 1-4-3 — A Poem About Choosing Love Without Losing Yourself

    Rowan Evans

    Author’s Note

    This poem is about safety—not the kind that cages, but the kind that invites you to stay. It’s about finding someone who doesn’t demand your strength or survival instincts, only your honesty. Someone who makes asking for help feel like an act of trust rather than surrender.

    1-4-3 is a quiet confession of rootedness. Of choosing presence over flight. Of love that doesn’t chase or trap, but steadies.

    Sometimes the bravest thing we do
    is stop running—and stay.

    — Rowan Evans

    A poetic dusk street scene with a figure standing still, symbolizing emotional safety, choice, and rooted love.
    Sometimes love isn’t about needing someone—it’s about choosing to stay.

    1-4-3
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    1-4-3 My Muse Avenue,
    where I dwell—
    where the words swell.
    Girl, you don’t understand;
    you inspire my ink well.

    When I feel lost,
    and in need of help,
    it’s you I turn to.
    Not because I expect you to fix me—
    simply because
    you make it safe enough to ask.

    And that’s no small feat,
    because fear
    used to run my feet.
    Any time I felt safe,
    any flicker of hope in my chest,
    my feet would begin to move.

    But this time?
    They stay planted—
    firm, like roots,
    unwilling to move.
    Because you…

    you make it so easy
    to want to stay.

    Mahal kita, mahal ko—
    tahanan ko.

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

  • How You Take Your Silence | A Poem About Quiet, Intimacy, and What We Hide

    Rowan Evans

    I’m less interested in what people show the world
    than in what they carry when no one is asking.

    I’ve learned that silence has weight.

    Soft light filtering through sheer curtains in a quiet room, creating a calm and intimate atmosphere
    Silence has its own weight.

    How You Take Your Silence
    Poetry by Rowan Evans

    I want to go beneath the surface—
    to see the substance,
    where true beauty lives.

    Don’t tell me how you take your coffee:
    tell me how you take your silence.

    I want to see the things
    you’ve been taught to hide:
    the tremor beneath your laughter,
    the cracks in the walls
    where light leaks through,
    the fingerprints of your fears
    pressed into the corners of your mind.

    The corners where your smile falters,
    the shadows that dance behind your eyes,
    the way your hands betray the calm
    you wear like armor.

    I want to trace the maps
    of the roads you walked alone,
    I want to know the weight
    of your quiet—

    I want to see how it shaped you,
    how it made you
    the whole of you.

    Author’s Note

    Silence has its own language.
    I’m still learning how to listen.

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

  • 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.