Returning to the Same Page I originally wrote I Started Writing for Me (I Kept Writing for You) on October 6, 2024.
Nearly two years later, on September 27, 2026, I came back to it.
I wasn’t trying to replace the original. I wanted to see what would happen if I approached the same poem from a different place in my life—same foundation, same heart, but a little more distance between the person who wrote it and the person reading it now.
The original was written as a reflection on why I started writing: at thirteen, poetry was private. It was where I put the things I couldn’t say anywhere else. Over time, though, those private words became bridges. The poems stopped existing only between me and the page and started reaching other people.
That’s still true.
But revisiting the poem made me realize that some things don’t need to be abandoned simply because you’ve grown. Sometimes you return to an old piece and discover that the person who wrote it was already saying something you still believe—you just have more language for it now.
This remix is therefore not a correction.
It’s a conversation with my younger poet-self.
The original asked why I started writing for me and why I eventually kept writing for you.
The remix asks what that answer looks like now.
The ink changed slightly.
The poet changed considerably.
But the reason I keep writing?
That part hasn’t changed.
— Rowan Evans
Two years later, I returned to the same poem—and discovered I wasn’t the same poet who wrote it.
I Started Writing for Me (I Kept Writing for You) (Remix) Poetry by Rowan Evans
I started writing for me,
a whisper in the night,
with ink as my solace—
my heart took its flight.
At thirteen—
I spilled secrets,
raw and unrefined—
pouring out my soul,
seeking peace of mind.
In the quiet of shadows,
I danced with despair—
words wrapped around anguish—
a truth laid bare.
But the world felt so heavy
and I seldom would share—
my verses held captive,
caught in the air.
Then came my twentieth birthday—
a surprise I could see,
a dawn breaking softly;
I hadn’t thought I’d be.
With each passing year,
I unfurled like a rose—
exploring my journey,
the darkness I chose.
My pen became magic,
transforming my pain—
in the depths of my sorrow,
a beauty would reign.
For in life,
shadows enhance the light—
without the dark’s embrace,
we lose sight of the bright.
I wove personal stories
into universal truths—
crafting connections
through my letters and oaths.
Every poem a testament,
a bridge built anew—
an exploration of love,
each word just for you.
My poetry’s a mirror,
reflecting the maze
of identities tangled
in a delicate haze—
inviting you closer,
to embrace what you feel—
for in every line penned,
there’s a wound that can heal.
Writing is my sanctuary—
where pain turns to art.
Illuminating the depths,
illuminating the heart—
so I keep writing for you
with each turn of the page—
a tapestry of voices,
a life I’ll engage.
Through the shadows and light,
I find strength to be free—
in the dance of my verses,
I write endlessly.
For the journey’s not over—
the ink flows anew,
I started writing for me—
Every poem begins as something inside the writer, but once it reaches the page, it becomes an invitation. An invitation to look closer, wander through unfamiliar worlds, meet the monsters in the margins, and perhaps recognize a little of yourself along the way.
Through the Page is my thank-you to everyone who has taken the time to read my work. Whether you’ve loved a poem, questioned it, laughed at it, or decided it wasn’t for you, you’ve still given something valuable: your time. And in a world where our paths may never cross, that small exchange between my thoughts and your mind means more than you might realize.
Of course, I couldn’t leave a thank-you note alone without sending it through a few ravens and a detour through the fires of my imagination. My pen has never been particularly good at staying on track. But beneath all the chaos is something simple and sincere: thank you for being here, for reading my art, and for becoming part of a journey that began long before these words reached you.
Salamat po. ありがとう.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
— Rowan Evans
Somewhere between the ravens, the monsters, and the raccoons in silk pajamas, we met through the page. Thank you for being part of the journey.
Through the Page Poetry by Rowan Evavns
If you’ve taken the time
to sit with my rhymes—
to read the thoughts
from my mind—
I thank you.
Even if you didn’t like
the words that I write—
still I say, thank you.
We’ll more than likely
never meet,
and unless you choose—
no words exchanged.
But we’ve connected—
through the page,
it was my thoughts
to your brain.
You’ve spent time with my ravens,
you’ve seen the monster in the margins—
peaked beyond the curtain,
glanced into my dreams—
a witness
to every confession
screamed.
You walked with me on Pluto,
watched the raccoons in silk pajamas—
you were there
when I gave up on ice,
I was done being cold,
so I wrote fire instead—
I penned the flames from my head,
it’s like I was the Ghost Writer—
possessed by vengeance
and Poets past.
Okay, let me dial it back.
I’m sorry, got a little off track—
but you know by now,
that’s what happens to me—
it’s like my pen
has got happy feet—
anyway, back to the point of this—
because believe it or not,
there was a point to this—
Thank you from the bottom of my heart,
salamat po, for reading my art—
ありがとう, for being even a small part
of this journey that I’m on—
Thank you, and I mean it—
salamat po, without you
none of this has any meaning.
It’s Almost Like I Know What I’m Doing is a little self-audit that turns into a flex before I can stop it.
I started by wondering whether my writing had become too much swagger and not enough emotion—whether the ink was simply running free without anything underneath it. Then I remembered how long I’ve been doing this, where some of that rhythm came from, and why I learned to turn anger into cadence and pain into something that could make me laugh.
Maybe the swagger isn’t the absence of emotion.
Maybe it’s one of the ways I’ve learned to carry it.
This piece is me looking at the machinery behind my own writing and realizing that the things I sometimes question—rhythm, rhyme, comedy, aggression, timing, and instinct—aren’t accidents anymore.
They’re tools.
And apparently, after all these years, I might actually know how to use them.
— Rowan Evans
After twenty-three years of shaping ink, maybe the swagger isn’t accidental.
It’s Almost Like I Know What I’m Doing Poetry by Rowan Evans
It’s like my writing has become
all swagger, no emotion—
it’s like the ink is coastin’,
like the edge of the sea—
but there’s no tide to guide me.
So my lines run free—
sometimes that’s not a problem for me,
other times it feels like it ends tragically,
like I’m going to say some shit,
and make people mad at me—
but if it happens naturally,
I’ll take the consequences, happily.
When the switch flips
and my mind shifts—
I can feel the slow drip,
emotions begin to slip
and my thoughts trip—
trip up and stumble,
drop the ball—fumble.
It’s only round one,
get ready to rumble—
this is a battle,
a bit more than a scuffle,
slide my feet—shuffle.
I’ve got twenty-nine years
putting marks on paper—
twenty-three years
as a real ink shaper—
I’ve poured my heart into this,
my whole life has been ink-stained—
spent years translating pain,
nearly thirty years,
laying my rage on the page—
it started early—
I was maybe nine or ten,
getting bullied back then.
I hated the bullies, hated school too.
Hated the fact they thought
they were too cool—
too small to fight back,
but I could write—
so I could bite back.
Used my ink to launch an attack,
went full scale—
you see,
I cut my teeth on bars
and that’s why—
my lines go hard.
I started at nine
learning the legends rhymes—
y’all gon’ make me lose my mind,
until even I’m asking
what My Name Is…
Never mind. False alarm.
I found it—
it was inside rhyming,
learning comedic timing—
yeah, I took the rage
and taught it how
to joke its way
across the page—
whether happy or in pain.
All it changed is
how I worded some things,
it’s almost like—
I know what I’m doing.
Journey into the Hexverse
[New God With a Pen] A battle-poet power fantasy where Superman’s rage, Batman’s fear, Darkseid’s cosmic authority, and the Anti-Life Equation collide with rhyme, turning an ordinary pen into something worthy of New God status.
[Lessons Without Kindness] A reflection on learning self-respect from a relationship that changed—the lessons hidden in manipulation, silence, and loss, and the realization that you don’t have to shrink yourself to make someone else feel tall.
[The Sacred Timeline] From childhood stories about Dragon Ball Z, Power Rangers, and Pokémon to gothic cathedrals, ravens, roses, identity, healing, and experimentation, The Sacred Timeline traces how Rowan Evans’s relationship with the pen evolved across thirty-six years—and how the ink remained while the writer kept changing.
The Sacred Timeline is a map of how my relationship with the pen has changed over nearly three decades of my life.
I started with stories about worlds that already existed—Dragon Ball Z, Power Rangers, Pokémon—and slowly began building worlds of my own. Then the pen became a way to learn cadence, translate music, hide things I couldn’t say aloud, survive periods when writing itself became difficult, and eventually turn pain into something crafted enough to share.
Every era left something behind: the storyteller, the songwriter, the secret keeper, the gothic romantic, the heretic, the battle poet, the confessor, the mythmaker. Some symbols came and stayed. Some meanings changed. Some questions took decades to become clear enough to write down.
And the timeline is still moving.
At thirty-six, I don’t consider the pen mastered so much as understood differently. Writing is still an experiment. The boundaries keep moving. The imagery keeps evolving. The person holding the pen keeps changing.
Maybe that’s the most sacred part of the timeline: the ink stayed, but I didn’t.
— Rowan Evans
Thirty-six years, countless pages, one pen—and an identity still being written.
The Sacred Timeline Poetry by Rowan Evans
I picked up a pen for the first time at seven, I was just writing stories then— Dragonball Z, Power Rangers and Pokémon… that’s what I wrote about way back when—
it was much lighter out, the sun had yet to meet the clouds— I was a natural storyteller, a real lore keeper, weaving lore before I even knew what lore meant. It was like this for years, I created my own space in worlds provided by minds much older than mine.
Then at ten—I switched what the pen meant to me, my creativity shifted mentally— no longer was I just a storyteller, I was letting music be the teacher now. Translating thoughts to song, at least the words of it— I was writing to worship something. Something that in six short years, I would begin to question—
but the years between ten and then—were spent, using the pen to learn cadence. I was trying to learn to perform on the page— I couldn’t do it in body, but I could turn a notebook to a stage.
At twelve things began to shift again, but with me, not with the pen— I still felt the sun, I still saws its rays, but I also saw more cloudy days— that year was hard for me, I couldn’t talk about it with clarity— most people would react like, “you’re scaring me”— so I stopped talking about it really, I closed my lips, but still let the ink spill— the page became a secret keeper, keeping the secrets this storyteller was too afraid to say out loud.
Thirteen the skies went dark— this is when life really got hard. At the beginning of the year, it’s like the ink in my pen had begun to dry— I don’t know what was wrong, but I couldn’t write. I tried and I tried— pages ripped from notebooks, balled up and scattered.
No songs, no stories— I had lost interest in things that I used to find most interesting. Parents took me to the doctor, and the doctor said—
“This kid’s depressed— and anxious too, I’ll write a prescription that should do. A referral for therapy, they’ll get them to talk— they’ll find out what’s wrong.”
A week would go by— giving the medicine a try, it takes time— it has to build up in your system. In the meantime, here’s a therapist, someone to talk to— they’ll listen to your problems, they’ll help you.
And they did—a little bit, they got me to talk a little bit too. But still they saw I was holding back— so they recommended journaling, but that felt tedious and boring. I needed to find a way to make it play— bring a little joy to it, even if falsified.
I made it a game to translate my pain— how many ways could I say everything? Is it possible to flip it? Maybe change the script and shift the meaning? These were the questions I began to ask— even when my ink ran in all black—
back when my heart was all cracks, before I learned how to use the gold to patch— I struggled through, just writing purely what I felt— thirteen, fourteen and fifteen, often felt like hell.
Sixteen, I hit my stride— not in life but with a pen, things were hard still, but now I could translate with skill. Not much, if we’re being honest— just enough to keep the pain beautiful, in case someone else saw it—
Seventeen, I did it again— reinvented myself with the pen, more gothic in my intentions. Maybe I finally read Poe, who knows— but ravens became a part of my soul.
At eighteen, I went from church steeples and church people to writing cathedrals for outcasts and heretics— we hadn’t yet, become luminous. Shadows and lace, velvet and venom— but I also opened my eyes more, became more aware of the world around— outside the borders I’m confined in.
At twenty, I started to write for people more—to uplift, and let them know they’re not alone— whatever they were going through, there was somebody with them. Even from a distance—
I had friends across seas, in places with palm trees— and in places with Kangaroos, even scarier—Emu.
I don’t know what that means in this piece—but it’s true, so do with that, what you’re going to do.
At twenty-two, I got more serious about the ink— I started to write everything. Every thought and every half-formed idea— I just put it on a page, my brain would not be a cage.
Then came twenty-five, the lowest point in my life— it wasn’t a sudden crash, but a slow rot— it bled through every thought, a feeling I couldn’t translate, familiar but different, heavier somehow— so the ink slowed to a drip, I started to let thoughts slip.
Twenty-six, I got serious again— more aggressive with the time spent, my pieces became more crafted and the ink was shaped with intention. Ravens, the moon, and roses too— the symbols I began to use.
I ascend on the back of raven wings— the silver light of the moon pierced the canopy—rose petals drift in the shifting currents of the wind. Everything connects, pay more attention and you’ll become more aware—
At thirty— I really began to question everything— who I was, who I am, who I want to be— and that’s still a question I’m working on answering. But it went deeper than that— I was questioning who I was in a deeper sense, like had I been a façade in some sense. Was I playing the role I was assigned, or being true to who I thought I was becoming?
This became a recurring theme in my poetry— it’s an odd thing to discover so late in life, that the person you thought you were— isn’t who you’re supposed to be. So I chased answers in ink to questions I couldn’t fully ask yet.
There were two more years of this— and I’m still not finished.
Thirty-three hit with another shift— I mixed the light with the shadow, it was Easter in the cathedral— pastel colors lit up the stained glass. My imagery began to shift shades— roses in all colors, pastel hues, but the thorns were still there too. So even my softness had bite—
and it evolved more, by thirty-four— more teeth but more softness too. Brighter hues and deeper shadows— this is when I learned, you can’t have one without the other.
The shadow needs the light to cast— and you need the shade to dim the shine, because too much shine— you might go blind.
Then came thirty-five— the modern era, the current phase, one year before the current day— and I know this won’t age well, it’s too time specific—
Finally, we’ve reached thirty-six, and I feel like I’ve mastered this— but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped learning, because every day is an experiment— really, it’s all about the experience— just learning new things and pushing it, finding where the boundary is and bending it, you gotta realize— you can’t always give a shit, who cares what they think— it’s your ink—shape it how you see fit.
Journey into the Hexverse
[The Metaphor Machine] A poem that takes apart its own machinery as it runs—breaking lines, breaking thoughts, and following metaphors from moonlight to tides, oceans, shorelines, and city streets.
[Exhibit A (The Evidence)] A quick-witted, unapologetically playful poem about writing fast, crossing lines, roasting the competition, and letting rhythm do the talking.
[Welcome to the Hexverse] Step into the Hexverse—a poetic world where mythmaking, humor, rage, creativity, and confession collide, and darkness becomes something that can be reshaped into art.
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.
This piece exists because I started chasing a joke and never stopped.
It began with the phrase “candy bars” and my brain immediately decided that if I was going to use that line, then I had a responsibility to see how many directions I could stretch it before the whole thing collapsed.
Apparently the answer was: quite a few.
Music bars. Candy bars. Space metaphors. Basketball references. Superheroes. Bob the Builder.
At some point I stopped asking where the poem was going and just followed it.
What surprised me is that beneath all the wordplay and punchlines, a theme quietly emerged on its own.
I’ve spent twenty-three years writing.
Long enough that writing no longer feels like something I do—it feels like part of the architecture of my life. Every poem, every story, every abandoned draft, every late-night idea scribbled into a notebook has contributed to the person I became.
So while this piece is intentionally playful, there is a small truth hiding inside all the jokes.
The lines about Jordan, Batman, Thor, and building aren’t really about any of those things.
They’re about creation.
About spending years building something that didn’t exist before.
A voice. A body of work. A universe made from language.
The title came from one of the many candy references, but it also captures the spirit of the piece perfectly.
Part joke. Part aspiration.
Because if you’ve spent decades writing, I think you’re allowed to dream a little.
And if that dream happens to include a 100 Grand and a book deal, well…
I won’t argue with it.
— Rowan Evans
Every bar starts somewhere. Sometimes with candy. Sometimes with stars. Sometimes with a dream worth building one line at a time.
100 Grand and a Book Deal Poetry by Rowan Evans
My taste in music is crazy,
I guess you could say—
I listen to looney tunes.
The sound comes from
across the stars,
I provide out‑of‑this‑world bars.
So when we get together
it’s a Space Jam.
I’m soft like nougat,
I write candy bars—
with a punchline
that hits so hard,
it’s got a CRUNCH
like Nestle’s.
Milky Way thoughts—
going cosmic
every time I brainstorm.
An Airhead?
Maybe—
I keep my head
in Fluffy Stuff clouds.
And I won’t stop,
won’t give in
until the Payday hits—
100 Grand
and a book deal.
Every poem’s a hit.
I don’t miss—
like my name’s Steph Curry.
23 years GOAT’d,
Jordan in his prime—
the way I pen my rhymes.
Did it with no Pippen.
No Rodman—
I am Batman, no Robin.
I built this house myself.
Swinging hammers,
call me Odinson—
Bob the Builder
building something.
I made this universe
line by line—
and every bar I drop
is mine.
Journey into the Hexverse…
[Copy of a Copy] A sharp, self-aware poem about originality, imitation, and the search for an authentic creative voice. What begins as a diss gradually reveals itself as a meditation on authorship, influence, and the things that can never truly be copied.
[Lone Wolf Theology] A philosophical pop-culture poem exploring freedom, identity, and self-authorship through the lens of superheroes, antiheroes, mythic archetypes, and personal rebellion. A declaration of autonomy in a world determined to write your story for you.
[L Words & Heart] A playful, self-aware poem about love, longing, loyalty, and the quiet ways another person can reshape our inner world. What begins as humor slowly reveals a heartfelt confession about affection, imagination, and the faces that linger in our dreams.
[Just Beyond Waking] A street that feels familiar. A life that hasn’t happened yet. Just Beyond Waking explores the fragile space between dreams, memory, longing, and the quiet feeling that some futures are already waiting for us.
[Twin Suns, Sister Moons] A poem about distance, longing, and the quiet pull of someone who lives beneath a different sky. Between twin suns and sister moons, the heart keeps reaching for home.
[It’s You I Choose] A poem about devotion, vulnerability, and the quiet decision to stay. Sometimes love isn’t certainty—it is choosing someone anyway.
