There are poems where I sit down with a very serious idea and carefully shape every word.
This isn’t one of those poems.
Draggin’ (Ignis) is me letting the pen run loose, throwing references at the page, flexing a little, and then immediately making fun of myself for doing it. It’s playful bravado with a gothic streak, a little battle-rap energy, and absolutely no intention of pretending I’m cooler than I am.
Twenty-three years of writing will do strange things to a poet.
Apparently, it makes them compare themselves to dragons, superheroes, and Pokémon-level fire hazards.
Enjoy the chaos.
— Rowan Evans
Twenty-three years of writing and this is what the pen decided to do with all that experience.
Draggin’ (Ignis) Poetry by Rowan Evans
Twenty-three years, I’ve been doing this
with craft in my veins and trauma in my brain—
I’ve really been through some shit.
Maybe that’s why I write so ruthless—
if I spit a diss, it’d be ignis—I’d be draggin’ you,
but I’m nice, so I’m a dragon like Toothless.
This is stupid, silly, dumb—
I can’t take me serious, and this is how come.
Yeah, these might be jokes—
but I’m cold, Bobby Drake,
so shut your mouth
before I turn your girl into a—
Dragon Rider…
That kind of killed the rhyme,
that’s fine—
here’s a few more lines…
I’m too quick-witted—
pen faster than Flash,
I’m too quick wit’ it
when I write lines
to silence critics.
I’ve been writing for years,
double digits—
two followed by the number
that comes next—
I’m not even trying to flex,
this is just me writing facts.
Journey into the Hexverse
[Behind These Bars (Idol Chatter)] A playful battle-poetry piece where confidence, wordplay, pop-culture references, and a sharp pen collide. Behind These Bars (Idol Chatter) turns verbal sparring into a ridiculous little poetry showdown.
[Kaio-ken/Zenkai] Two Dragon Ball-inspired battle poems about creative power, survival, and coming back stronger. Kaio-ken with a Pen brings the attack, while Zenkai (Stronger Now) delivers the aftermath: push me to the edge, and I’ll return stronger than before.
[Don’t Push Me] A playful battle-poetry piece about turning insults into punchlines, standing your ground, and refusing to be intimidated. Don’t Push Me mixes swagger, humor, rhyme, and Rowan Evans’ signature self-aware interruptions.
[B.S.T.F.U.] A playful battle-poetry exercise packed with insults, internal rhymes, punchlines, wordplay, and literary swagger. B.S.T.F.U. is Rowan Evans flexing the verbal muscles—not calling out anyone in particular.
Sometimes I sit down with a pen and decide I’m going to behave.
That usually lasts about three lines.
Behind These Bars (Idol Chatter) is one of those pieces where the writing gets a little cocky, the jokes start stacking up, and the references begin sneaking through the cracks. It’s playful, competitive, and intentionally ridiculous in places.
So consider this a little verbal sparring session.
No hard feelings.
Probably.
— Rowan Evans
The meet-and-greet is over. The pen has entered the battle.
Behind These Bars (Idol Chatter) Poetry by Rowan Evans
Oh, look at you— look what you can do with a pen—it’s cute, but you can’t win— yet you think you can?
Damn, man— what was your plan? How were you going to get the best of me?
Get in line— get ready for the meet and greet, I’ll sign your autograph, cause I—
I know I’m your Idol, American, shape the ink like clay, ’til it’s achin’— I’m Stronger now, and not Because Of You, so listen quick, remember bitch, you’ll want to remember where you were at during A Moment Like This—
that was three straight references to Clarkson, Kelly— sit down, talk show, telly. It’s just jokes bitch, I can get silly— that’s just how the mind Behind These Hazel Eyes works—
jerks.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Conductor] A dark, intimate poem about the strange power words can have over the reader—where rhythm, rhyme, and line breaks become instruments capable of reaching beyond the page.
[Kaio-ken/Zenkai] Two Dragon Ball-inspired battle poems about creative power, survival, and coming back stronger. Kaio-ken with a Pen brings the attack, while Zenkai (Stronger Now) delivers the aftermath: push me to the edge, and I’ll return stronger than before.
[Don’t Push Me] A playful battle-poetry piece about turning insults into punchlines, standing your ground, and refusing to be intimidated. Don’t Push Me mixes swagger, humor, rhyme, and Rowan Evans’ signature self-aware interruptions.
[B.S.T.F.U.] A playful battle-poetry exercise packed with insults, internal rhymes, punchlines, wordplay, and literary swagger. B.S.T.F.U. is Rowan Evans flexing the verbal muscles—not calling out anyone in particular.
Sometimes absence isn’t just being alone. Sometimes it feels like having no body at all.
Nobody² (No Body) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m a nobody,
I’ve got nobody.
I’m just a ghost—
I’ve got no body.
[Rose & Ruin] Two minimalist poems exploring the opposing forces within creativity: the thoughts we cultivate into something beautiful and the darker thoughts we transform before they have a chance to decay.
[Conductor] A dark, intimate poem about the strange power words can have over the reader—where rhythm, rhyme, and line breaks become instruments capable of reaching beyond the page.
Comic Book Confidence is me asking a very important question:
What if I had superhero confidence without actually having superhero powers?
The answer, apparently, is several increasingly terrible decisions.
I wanted to play with the mythology of comic-book heroes—the wall-crawling, flying, super-speed, impossible confidence—and translate that into a deliberately ridiculous poetic narrative. Every time the speaker decides they must have discovered a new power, reality immediately provides a correction.
That’s what makes the piece fun for me. It’s not really about superheroes; it’s about confidence outrunning competence.
And maybe that’s something worth laughing at in ourselves sometimes. We imagine ourselves as Spider-Man, Superman, The Flash, Batman—and then gravity reminds us that we’re still just people.
So this is Battle Rowan in a different form:
No superpowers. No safety net. Just confidence, bad decisions, and a pen.
— Rowan Evans
Turns out confidence is a superpower. Unfortunately, gravity isn’t impressed.
Comic Book Confidence Poetry by Rowan Evans
Put glue on my hands,
and try to climb the walls—
yeah, tried to Spider-Man it.
Fell, got hurt, it was a curse—
goddamnit!
Okay, so that’s not the power I got
and honestly, I’m shocked—
Maybe I can fly? Maybe I’ll try,
sheet tied and I climbed, high—
from this vantage point I could see,
everyone looking like ants to me.
Took one step then up, up and away.
I jumped toward the summit—I Superman’d it.
For a second, thought I made it—
but really, I just—plummet.
Yes, there I was hurtling—
quick as shit toward the Earth,
oh man, this is gonna hurt,
just as soon as I hit the dirt.
Oof, cough, wheeze—
that was me trying to breathe.
I had hit chest first,
knocked the air out of me—
I struggled to my feet,
stumbling into a jog—
like I had somewhere to be,
and someone to meet—
but I just had to run it off,
Barry Allen, vibrating through a wall—
or nah—
smashed my head, I’m wobblin’—
vision blurred, words slurred,
delusion settin’ in—now I think I’m Batman
and I’m Robin.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Kaio-ken with a Pen/Zenkai] Two Dragon Ball-inspired battle poems about creative power, survival, and coming back stronger. Kaio-ken with a Pen brings the attack, while Zenkai (Stronger Now) delivers the aftermath: push me to the edge, and I’ll return stronger than before.
[The Inkbender] What if poetry was another form of bending? The Inkbender transforms the philosophies of Avatar: The Last Airbender into a celebration of language, creativity, rage, healing, and the power of the written word.
I originally wrote these as two separate pieces, but once I stepped back and read them together, I realized they were having the same conversation.
Kaio-ken with a Pen is the attack: speed, confidence, exaggerated battle-rap energy, and the idea that my mind can move faster than the people trying to keep up with it. The pen becomes the weapon, and Dragon Ball becomes the language I’m using to describe that creative intensity.
Then came Zenkai (Stronger Now).
That one felt like the natural aftermath. In Dragon Ball, a Zenkai is the idea of becoming stronger after surviving a near-death experience. That concept fit perfectly with the way I think about resilience: sometimes you get pushed to the edge, you survive the fight, and you come back with something you didn’t have before.
So together, these poems became something of a two-part battle sequence:
I attack with the pen. I survive the fight. I come back stronger.
Neither piece is meant as a literal threat toward anyone. They’re me having fun with battle-poetry, Dragon Ball references, ridiculous power scaling, and the sheer joy of seeing how far I can push a metaphor before it explodes.
Basically: Battle Rowan went Super Saiyan.
— Rowan Evans
One poem is the attack.
Kaio-ken with a Pen Poetry by Rowan Evans
I can go Super Saiyan easy,
the way Chi Chi teached me—
taught me, I forgot you see
I’m the best, yes,
don’t want to step to this—
you don’t want to fought me—
fight me, I mean—bitch bite me,
you’re not like me.
My mind is terrifyingly quick—
thoughts comes, instant transmission—
from my mind to the page
in a Final Flash attack—
Kaio-ken with a pen, is this the end?
Fin.
Kaio-ken with a pen, I’m at it again,
this is my battle to win.
It’s going take you, a Kamehameha
and Kaio-ken times ten just to test me—
but it won’t be enough to best me.
The other is what happens when you survive it.
Zenkai (Stronger Now) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I’m Goku after a fight
and a Senzu bean,
you know what that means—
I’ve gotten stronger now,
you pushed me to the edge—
took me to the brink,
but you couldn’t end it—
you couldn’t finish me.
So do your little dance,
put on the Potara—do it—
put your minds together,
just know, even two as one—
you won’t get the job done.
I won’t borrow strength from no one,
don’t need no spirit bomb
to drop bombs—
No Kamehameha—
just ha-ha, I’m laughin’ at you.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Don’t Push Me] A playful battle-poetry piece about turning insults into punchlines, standing your ground, and refusing to be intimidated. Don’t Push Me mixes swagger, humor, rhyme, and Rowan Evans’ signature self-aware interruptions.
[B.S.T.F.U.] A playful battle-poetry exercise packed with insults, internal rhymes, punchlines, wordplay, and literary swagger. B.S.T.F.U. is Rowan Evans flexing the verbal muscles—not calling out anyone in particular.
Don’t Push Me is another exercise in letting my battle-poet voice stretch its legs.
This isn’t meant as a literal threat or a callout toward any particular person. It’s playful bravado—the kind of exaggerated, cartoonish toughness that happens when I take an ordinary insult, run it through my sense of humor, and see how far I can push the rhyme.
The opening starts with something I’ve genuinely heard for most of my life: being called “four-eyes.” From there, the poem turns that insult into ammunition. If you’re going to give me material, I’m going to make something out of it.
And then, naturally, my brain couldn’t resist sabotaging the intimidation.
I’m not— (shhh, nice kitty)
Because apparently even Battle Rowan has an editor. Sometimes the strongest thing you can do with anger isn’t explode. Sometimes it’s turn it into a punchline.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes you don’t have to throw the first punch—you just have to know what to do with the material they give you.
Don’t Push Me Poetry by Rowan Evans
You called me four-eyes? And you want me to react to that? I’ve had glasses since I was two, bifocals since five— I’ve had four eyes, longer than you’ve been alive.
What’s next? You gonna call me slow?
(I’m fast as fuck, boi.)
Physically or mentally? Doesn’t matter though, there’s something you should know.
I don’t back down, I stand my ground— because every fight I’m in, is like a fight for my life— I’m scrawny as fuck, man, still use no weapons— just fists, no knife.
So trust me—
you don’t want the jokes to stop, you don’t want to know what it’s like, when I really talk—
[B.S.T.F.U.] A playful battle-poetry exercise packed with insults, internal rhymes, punchlines, wordplay, and literary swagger. B.S.T.F.U. is Rowan Evans flexing the verbal muscles—not calling out anyone in particular.
There isn’t a real target hiding behind this poem, no specific person I’m trying to call out, and no secret literary feud happening behind the scenes. I wrote this because sometimes I like to take the battle-poet side of my voice out for a walk and see what it can do.
This piece is deliberately over-the-top. It’s swagger, insults, wordplay, internal rhyme, punchlines, and a little bit of absurdity thrown into the blender. The goal wasn’t to make a serious accusation—it was to practice the mechanics of verbal combat while having fun with the language.
And honestly, that’s part of why I love writing: sometimes I want to write something vulnerable, sometimes I want to build mythology, sometimes I want to make conspiracy theories about fish, and sometimes I just want to look at the imaginary competition and say:
Where are you on the ladder?
Below me.
It’s not that serious.
But the pen game?
That part is serious.
— Rowan Evans
No target. No feud. Just a poet flexing the pen and climbing the imaginary ladder.
B.S.T.F.U. Poetry by Rowan Evans
Bitch, shut the fuck up—
what’chu talkin’ about?
Don’t think I haven’t heard—
how you’re runnin’ your mouth.
You thought ’cause I don’t talk a lot,
I was open season, you should be scared—
let me give you a reason, I’m a big dog—
all bite, no bark and a license to write still.
I write with precision, I write kills—
you’re not a writer,
you’re the one who steals—
plagiarizing those with skill.
It’s stolen lines
and stolen rhymes—
the only thing keeping you
holding on to borrowed time—
it’s not yours—
it’s whoever writes for you.
It’s me and it’s them—
it’s the wielders of the pen.
Those with skill,
with lines that kill
and lines that heal—
we know—
you don’t write, bitch—
be so for real.
You don’t know what a metaphor is—
and a stanza?
You hear that and you’re like—
isn’t his first name Tony?
Bitch, you’re a phony…
if you were
to try and write—
baloney.
All that to ask—
when it comes
to writing—
where are you
on the ladder?
Below me.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Across the Page-cific] A playful, autobiographical journey through the strange places poetry can take me—from sandwich heartbreak and pasta diss poems to gothic monsters, mythology, ravens, ghosts, and storms across the page. Beneath the absurdity is something deeply personal: the realization that writing gave me a way to rebuild myself, piece by piece.
Sometimes I genuinely wonder what happens when I give my brain permission to write whatever it wants.
The answer, apparently, is sandwiches, pasta, farmers on Pluto, raccoons in silk pajamas, llamas, trees, cartoon ghosts, monsters, seven deadly sins, and a journey across an ocean that does not technically exist.
And honestly?
I love it.
Across the Page-cific (Chasing Storms) is a celebration of the strange places my writing can go when I stop trying to force it into a single shape.
This poem deliberately references several of my recent pieces and recurring worlds. The sandwich wordplay comes from Lost in the Sauce. The pasta-based literary assault comes from Impasta (A Diss in Pasta Form). The trees point back to my playful botanical wordplay, while Danny Phantom, the Monster in the Margins, the Seven Deadly Sonnets, ravens, spirits, and other imagery come from the larger mythology and vocabulary I’ve been building throughout my work.
The references aren’t just Easter eggs.
They’re evidence.
Evidence of how much my writing has changed—and how much more willing I am now to let different parts of my voice coexist.
For a long time, I thought I needed to choose what kind of writer I was supposed to be.
Gothic poet.
Confessional poet.
Love poet.
Dark poet.
Funny poet.
Experimental poet.
But the more I write, the less interested I am in choosing.
I want to write the heartbreak poem with sandwich ingredients.
I want Tony Stanza to write a pasta diss.
I want to turn mythology into autobiography.
I want to write about ghosts and gods, then turn around and make a terrible pun.
I want to chase a metaphor until it becomes absurd.
And then, underneath all of it, I want to find something honest.
That is what the storms in this poem represent.
The chaotic lines.
The sudden cadence changes.
The ideas that arrive from nowhere.
The parts of my mind that refuse to walk in a straight line.
I used to think I needed to calm those storms down.
Now?
I chase them.
Because writing has become a playground again.
And somewhere in that playground, I keep finding pieces of myself I hadn’t finished discovering.
“It was writing that saved me” is therefore not a throwaway line.
Writing gave me a language for experiences I couldn’t always explain directly. It gave me somewhere to put the contradictions, the humor, the darkness, the questions, the love, the anger, the absurdity, and everything else that makes up the person behind the pen.
Piece by piece.
Bit by bit.
I rebuilt myself in the art.
And apparently, sometimes that art looks like a sandwich, a bowl of pasta, and a storm on the Pacific.
I’ll take it.
— Rowan Evans
I stopped trying to avoid the storms. I started chasing them across the page.
Across the Page-cific (Chasing Storms) Poetry by Rowan Evans
Let’s see, what other ridiculous thing
can we turn into poetry—
I’ve written a heartbreak poem
using sandwich ingredients,
and wrote a diss poem
using nothing but pasta noodles—
was a farmer on Pluto,
witnessed raccoons in silk pajamas
perched on the backs of llamas—
while I shaped love poems
out of the trees—
I’ve turned Danny Phantom
into religion—a whole faith
on “going ghost”—
but really it’s just me stuck
between worlds.
I’ve written as the monster in the margins
and the spirits in the room—
seven sins that act like tax on the soul.
Go against the monster, you won’t leave whole.
Feeling like Pennywise, grin wide,
’cause I’m a clown in my rhymes
sometimes—
I’ve taken trips
in ink-dipped ships
across the page-cific—
avoiding storms of chaotic lines
and jagged rhymes
with sudden cadence changes.
Just kidding—
I chased the storms across the page,
embraced the pace my brain gave.
It was writing that saved me—
it gave me a way to translate me,
piece by piece and bit by bit,
I rebuilt myself in the art of lit—
where a mind like mine appears rarely.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Lost in the Sauce] A playful heartbreak poem where sandwiches, ketchup, mustard, rye, lettuce, and sourdough become metaphors for emotional confusion. Beneath the food puns is a speaker trying to understand how everything went from “we’re okay” to suddenly feeling cold.
[Impasta] Tony Stanza is back with another literary attack—and this time, he’s bringing pasta. Spaghetti, fettuccine, macaroni, ravioli, and angel hair become weapons in a ridiculous diss aimed at a poet whose rhymes are allegedly cheesy, fragile, and completely impasta.
[Pluto Farmer] A whimsical absurdist poem about being a certified weirdo, farming space carrots on Pluto, and refusing to fit into anyone else’s definition of “normal.”
[Raccoons in Silk Pajamas] What begins with judgmental Space Chickens quickly spirals into camels in parked cars, elephants in jam jars, raccoons in silk pajamas, and astronauts in the ocean. A playful absurdist poem about language, imagination, and what happens when you stop trying to control where the words go.
[Did You Really Think This Was About Trees?] A playful love poem disguised as a forest of terrible tree puns. Beneath the birch, oak, cedar, palms, lumber, and absurdist wordplay is a poem about devotion, loyalty, laughter, and building a life with someone you love.
[Danny Phantom Theology] What begins as a metaphor borrowed from a childhood cartoon becomes something deeper: a reflection on existing between survival and possibility, exhaustion and hope, the life we have and the life we long for. Danny Phantom Theology explores what it means to keep moving toward a future that feels worth living.
[The Monster in the Margins II] The Monster in the Margins II transforms Rowan Evans’s Seven Deadly Sins mythology into a horror story written between the lines, where Lust, Wrath, Sloth, Greed, Pride, Envy, and Gluttony become monsters growing from pain, grudges, and scars.
Unfortunately for that poet, Tony has discovered pasta.
Impasta (A Diss in Pasta Form) is exactly what it sounds like: a diss poem written almost entirely through pasta-related wordplay. Spaghetti becomes “impasta.” Fettuccine becomes “alfredo.” Macaroni becomes a metaphor for having no backbone. Ravioli becomes something that folds under pressure.
And Tony is absolutely convinced this is devastating.
That is what makes Tony Stanza fun.
He isn’t trying to be subtle. He isn’t trying to sound sophisticated. He is a fictional poet who has apparently decided that every pasta dish is an opportunity for literary violence.
But underneath the ridiculousness, there is a real little diss hiding in here.
The target isn’t merely being called a bad poet. They’re being accused of being derivative, fragile, empty, and dependent on other people’s work. The pasta metaphors are ridiculous, but the criticism itself is surprisingly straightforward:
Your work isn’t yours.
Your confidence doesn’t survive pressure.
And underneath all that presentation, there’s nothing there.
Of course, Tony couldn’t possibly just say that.
He had to make it about spaghetti.
This is also another piece in the growing mythology of Tony Stanza—the “greatest poet you’ve never heard of,” a poet whose signature “Ayo…” apparently signals that something deeply unserious is about to happen.
If I write anything pasta-related from this point forward, Tony Stanza did it.
I don’t make the rules.
Tony does.
— Rowan Evans
Ayo… Tony Stanza has entered the kitchen. And somebody’s about to get impasta’d. 🍝
Impasta (A Diss in Pasta Form) Poetry by Tony Stanza
Ayo…
I call you spaghetti— because you’re just an impasta. (Imposter.) Your rhymes are cheesy. Parmesan.
All these suckers fettucine. They alfredo. (afraid though.) Yeah, these bitches is macaroni. All elbows. No backbone.
They talk a lot a ravioli— but fold when pressure hits, seam splits— and you realize they were full of nothing, no substance.
You thought you were angel hair, capellini, the chosen one—divinity with a pen. But you’re just thin-skinned, overcooked, fragile to the core.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Lost in the Sauce] A playful heartbreak poem where sandwiches, ketchup, mustard, rye, lettuce, and sourdough become metaphors for emotional confusion. Beneath the food puns is a speaker trying to understand how everything went from “we’re okay” to suddenly feeling cold.
And sometimes my brain apparently looks at a sandwich and says, yes, this is how we’re processing emotional confusion today.
Lost in the Sauce is a deliberately playful poem built around food-related wordplay, particularly the language of sandwiches, condiments, bread, and the wonderfully terrible possibilities hidden inside them.
The jokes are intentionally stupid.
That is part of the point.
“Bread” becomes “rye.” “Ketchup” becomes “catch up.” “Mustard” becomes “must’ve.” “Sourdough” becomes an emotional description. Even “lettuce meat in the middle” is doing multiple jobs at once.
But beneath all of that nonsense is something much more familiar: the confusion of being told that everything is okay while someone’s behavior feels completely different.
The speaker is trying to understand the contradiction.
They were told the relationship was fine.
They were told the other person was happy.
So why does everything suddenly feel cold?
Why does affection feel sour?
Why does the speaker feel trapped in place, struggling to catch up to something they don’t fully understand?
The ridiculous wordplay gives me permission to approach that emotional confusion without making the poem overly solemn.
I’ve been rediscovering how much I enjoy treating language like a playground—taking ordinary words, twisting them until they become something else, and seeing how far I can push a joke before the emotional meaning underneath it starts showing through.
So yes, this poem is about sandwiches.
Sort of.
Mostly, it’s about being lost in the sauce when the person you’re trying to understand has already changed the recipe.
— Rowan Evans
Sometimes you don’t fall apart. Sometimes you just get lost in the sauce. 🥪
Lost in the Sauce Poetry by Rowan Evans
You sandwiched me in
with an all-tomato—
love you or leave,
but I couldn’t do it clean—
I was lost in the sauce,
begging lettuce
meat in the middle.
You said, “you lie.”
I said, “Nah, you rye.”
But do you know why?
I was stuck in place,
you wouldn’t wait—
I was struggling
to ketchup.
I thought you
mustard—
how could you not?
People talk.
Look—
I’m sorry.
I don’t want to fight.
But, you said—
you were happy.
We were okay.
So why you so cold,
why you actin’ sourdough?
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Did You Really Think This Was About Trees?] A playful love poem disguised as a forest of terrible tree puns. Beneath the birch, oak, cedar, palms, lumber, and absurdist wordplay is a poem about devotion, loyalty, laughter, and building a life with someone you love.
[Blended Hardware] A playful, absurdist poem where step-ladders, garden hoses, Star Wars, teenage memories, Gothic imagery, and the poet’s own self-interrupting commentary collide. Blended Hardware is a celebration of letting language wander.
Poetry by Rowan Evans 