writing – Poetry by Rowan Evans

Who Do I Relate To in Fiction? | A Villain-Inspired Poem by Rowan Evans

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

I’ve always found it interesting who we relate to in fiction—and apparently, my answer is the villains.

Not necessarily because I agree with everything they do, but because I recognize pieces of myself in their intensity, their flaws, their ambition, their pettiness, and sometimes even the way they try to make sense of the world.

So this is me admitting that my fictional character roster might raise a few questions.

Vader. Maul. Thawne. Light.

Yeah.

I know.

— Rowan Evans

Maybe the villains aren’t relatable because they’re right—maybe they’re relatable because they’re human.

Who Do I Relate To in Fiction?
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I relate to the villains—
Like Vader, who loved so hard
he became a monster—
sure he killed Padmé,
but was that really
little Ani’s fault?
Because I blame Obi-Wan—
you see, if Kenobi
had not of gone—
if he hadn’t have been
on Mustafar,
Padmé would still be here.

And I relate with Maul,
because he had it all—
the flips, the tricks,
the sweet lightsaber
with twice the blade—
but his overconfidence
was his downfall.
That’s why I keep mine in check,
I’m not ready to split yet.

I relate to Eobard Thawne.
That’s the level of petty
that I aspire to,
because if I don’t like you—
and I mean, really don’t like you,
I make it my job
to keep you feeling off.
It’s nothing big,
just little and inconvenient—
until it’s not.
(Sorry, Mrs. Allen.)

I also relate to Light Yagami—
because he likes to write,
and I like to write too.
We both write names in notebooks,
try to shape fate with words—
the difference is, where my ink
sometimes heals—
his only hurts.

Journey into the Hexverse

[It Could Have Been…]
A playful little love poem about strawberries, roses, and the wonderfully ridiculous ways romance can show up when you know someone doesn’t like the traditional version.

[Exhibit A]
A quick-witted, unapologetically playful poem about writing fast, crossing lines, roasting the competition, and letting rhythm do the talking.

[Why So Serious?]
A playful, chaotic poem packed with pop-culture references, superhero imagery, Disney characters, wordplay, and the kind of ridiculous puns that make the poet wonder why they were ever given a pen.

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

Sep 11, 2026 5:00 PM

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Exhibit A (The Evidence) | Playful Poetry by Rowan Evans

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This piece is me doing what I do best: writing too fast, joking too much, and letting the pen cross whatever line happens to be in the way.

It’s cocky. It’s playful. It knows exactly how ridiculous it is.

So consider this less of a confession and more of an exhibit.

The evidence is right there on the page.

— Rowan Evans

Exhibit A: The evidence speaks for itself.

Exhibit A (The Evidence)
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I write so quick
and joke a bit.
I’m quick-witted—
enough to roast a bitch.
Down to earth,
enough to toast a bitch.
I’m on a roll,
like butter is—
spread thin
across genres,
but still
the cadence hits—
because that’s
where the rhythm lives.

You think I’m joking—

but I really write like this,
take this piece—
it’s the evidence.
Exhibit A on a list to—
these other poets
don’t exist to me.

When I read their work—

it’s straight Zs,
it puts me to sleep.

My mind is too quick,
and I don’t know
where the line is—
I’m always crossing it.
That’s what gets me
in trouble, yeah—
so I just double-down.

I’m already in trouble,
so why stop now?

Journey into the Hexverse

[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.

[Circle of Me]
A reflective poem about sitting among the voices of memory, joy, pain, and fear—and realizing that some burdens are bigger than any one person.

[High Tide]
A short reflective poem about leaving, returning, and accepting the forces that pull us back—like the tide guided by the moon.

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

Sep 9, 2026 7:49 PM

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Draggin’ (Ignis) | A Playful Battle Poetry Flex by Rowan Evans

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

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.

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

Sep 1, 2026 5:00 PM

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Give Me (I’ll Give) | A Playful Confidence Poem by Rowan Evans

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

Some poems ask for your attention.

This one asks for a challenge.

Give me something to work with, and I’ll turn it into a line. A joke. A rhyme. A little trouble.

That’s the game.

— Rowan Evans

Give me something to work with. I’ll give you a poem.

Give Me (I’ll Give)
Poetry by Rowan Evans

Give me a beat,
I’ll give you a bar.
Give me a graveyard,
I’ll give you a ghost.
Give me a lyric,
I’ll give you a joke.
Give me a drink,
I’ll give you a toast.

You don’t have to say it—
I know, I write better than most.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[Nobody² (No Body)]
A minimalist poem playing with the double meaning of “nobody”—exploring loneliness, isolation, absence, and the feeling of becoming a ghost within your own life.

[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.

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

Aug 30, 2026 5:00 PM

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B.S.T.F.U. | A Battle-Poetry Flex by Rowan Evans

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

B.S.T.F.U. is me flexing.

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.

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

Aug 20, 2026 6:59 PM

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Where the Metaphors Lead | A Confessional Poem About Love, Dreams & Finding Your Voice

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

Some poems begin with an idea. Others begin with a feeling that refuses to leave.

This one was written in the early hours of the morning, during that familiar stretch of time when the world grows quiet enough for my thoughts to become louder than everything else.

I’ve always found it easier to write than to speak. Conversations ask for immediate answers. Poetry allows me to sit with a feeling until I understand it well enough to translate it into language.

Many of the recurring images throughout my recent work—the moon, the tide, distant shores, dreams, and city streets—have become a personal symbolic language. They aren’t separate subjects anymore. They all point toward the same emotional center.

This poem finally acknowledges that.

Sometimes the metaphors aren’t hiding anything.

Sometimes they’re quietly leading us back to the truth we were trying not to say.

— Rowan Evans

Some feelings only find their voice after midnight, where dreams, memory, and metaphor become impossible to tell apart.

Where the Metaphors Lead
Poetry by Rowan Evans

It’s funny how I find myself here again,
four AM—it’s just me, the music and my pen.
I’ve got so many thoughts with so much to say,
my lips move but no sound comes—
like I lost one voice, when I found the other.

And it’s not that I can’t speak—

it’s just that words don’t come easily,
when they try to come verbally.

But on the page,
everything lines up—

the thoughts, the feelings,
the things I never say out loud.
Ink doesn’t trip over itself
the way my voice does.

So here are a few
truths for you—

there is a woman
she is on my mind constantly,
yeah, she is simultaneously
the easiest and hardest to talk to.

She makes me feel like I can be me—
completely.

And honestly,
I’ve never really had that
with anybody else—

every beautiful line I write
about the moon in the sky,
the ocean and tide—

yeah, most of the time
it leads back to her
in my mind.

And every dream, I translate in ink—
the shores I walk in sleep,
secrets I try not to keep,
even when it’s hard to speak—

I lay them on the page and pray
that they’ll reach their destination one day.

So I sit here,
four AM again,
writing the things
I can’t say out loud—

hoping one day
I’ll find the courage
to speak them aloud.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[The World Shifted Around Us]
The world transformed around us—beach, city streets, jungle—but we never moved. Sometimes love isn’t found in words, but in the quiet certainty of someone remaining clear while everything else fades.

[Every Night, The Same Flight]
Every night begins with the same flight. Between wakefulness and sleep, an airport appears, a familiar shoreline waits beyond the journey, and the same dream asks whether some destinations find us before we’re ready to find them.

[Where I Belonged]
A bedroom becomes an airport in the space between sleep and waking. Where I Belonged explores liminal consciousness, uncertainty, and the strange moments when reality feels suspended between two worlds

[Opposites Coasts of the Same Silence]
What separates two people isn’t always an ocean. Sometimes it’s the silence between everything left unsaid. Opposite Coasts of the Same Silence explores longing, distance, dreams, and the quiet hope that even across impossible divides, someone might still hear your voice.

[Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3)]
A moonlit shoreline, a rowboat full of ducks, a piggybank with no cents, and a confession hidden in plain sight. Ocean Waves (1, 4, 3) explores how humor, wordplay, and absurdity can become a side door to vulnerability when the truth feels too difficult to say directly.

[Call of the Tide]
A poem about identity, displacement, and the quiet pull toward something beyond the shoreline you were born on. Sometimes the tide calls louder than the anthem.

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

Jul 28, 2026 6:29 PM

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Copy of a Copy | A Poem About Originality, Authorship & Finding Your Voice

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This piece started as a diss.

Or at least that’s what I told myself when I began writing it.

The voice arrived first: irritated, dismissive, sharp around the edges. The kind of voice that has grown tired of watching imitation mistake itself for originality.

But as the poem developed, I realized it wasn’t really about a specific person.

It was about authorship.

About the difference between influence and imitation.

Every writer begins by borrowing something. We absorb voices we admire. We study techniques. We experiment with styles that resonate with us. That’s part of learning.

The problem isn’t influence.

The problem is stopping there.

Because eventually every artist reaches a point where imitation becomes a limitation. A point where the question shifts from “Who do I sound like?” to “What do I actually have to say?”

That’s the tension at the center of this piece.

The speaker isn’t claiming ownership over Gothic imagery, confession, darkness, anxiety, or any of the themes referenced in the poem. Those things belong to countless writers across generations.

What can’t be copied is the life underneath them.

The experiences.

The scars.

The specific reasons a person reaches for certain images, metaphors, and obsessions.

Someone can reproduce the shape of a voice.

But shape is not source.

That’s why the final lines matter to me.

The joke is that the speaker becomes so frustrated with imitation that they offer to write the copy themselves.

But underneath the sarcasm is a quieter observation:

If you spend all your time trying to become someone else, you’ll never discover what only you could have written.

And that’s where the most interesting work usually begins.

— Rowan Evans

Influence teaches the craft. Authenticity creates the voice. A copy can mimic the shape, but never the source.

Copy of a Copy
Poetry by Rowan Evans

You carry yourself like a killer.
Yeah, of vibes—
You think you’re intimidating?
You’re not. Just stop.
You’re embarrassing.

You’ve had
zero original thoughts,
you just parrot me.
You’re a parody.

A copy of a copy,
copied a second time—
it’s obvious in the rhyme,
you can see it
in the quality decline.

Take your pen
and try to write like me.

Gothic lace and confession,
tinted with depression—
written by an anxious mind.
You can copy me
line for line, rhyme for rhyme
and I’m sure you’ll find
it still won’t land right.

Here—
let me write for you.
It’s not like
that’s not something
I already do.
But this time,
I’ll give the lines to you.

Journey into the Hexverse…

[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.

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

Jun 8, 2026 1:00 AM

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Depths – A Poem About Writing, Survival, and the Fear of Feeling

Rowan Evans

Author’s Note

This poem isn’t about skill.
It’s about orientation.

Some people write to be understood.
Some people write because silence feels lethal.

This piece is for the ones who learned to live in the deep—
who didn’t choose intensity so much as need it to breathe.

It isn’t an accusation.
It’s a recognition.

Not everyone was taught that the ocean is real.

Some of us learned to breathe underwater.

Depths
Poetry by Rowan Evans

I write
like I might
die, if I don’t.

You write
like you’re trying
to pen
the perfect quote.

We are not the same.

But you
are not to blame.
It’s not on you
to carry
society’s shame.

They went shallow,
and punished the depths.

Closing Note

Some of us learned
to breathe underwater.

Some of us
were told
the ocean
was a lie.

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

Jan 10, 2026 12:05 AM

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In Tongues and Travels: A Celebration of Language and Culture by Rowan Evans

Rowan Evans

“I have always been captivated by the lives and languages of people far from my own. This piece is a reflection on curiosity, respect, and the love I carry for cultures I have yet to touch.”

Listening to the world in every language, feeling the pulse of life in every culture. – Rowan Evans

I have always been drawn to the world outside myself… to the rhythms of languages I do not speak, to streets I have never walked, to skies I have yet to stand beneath. There is a life in language, a heartbeat in culture, and I listen as closely as I can.

Even when I cannot understand the words, I hear the cadence, the rise and fall, the hidden music that belongs to a place and its people. Mandarin or Cantonese, Tagalog or Korean, Japanese or German—they each carry a soul in their tones, a story in their syllables. I notice when the smallest detail shifts, when a rhythm is off, when a sound is not quite what it should be. Some call it obsession; I call it devotion.

The written form sings to me as well. Korean curves in gentle arcs, Chinese strikes with sharp certainty, Japanese flows in graceful ribbons. To many, they appear alike, but I hear the difference, see the rhythm, sense the pulse of lives folded into every character, every stroke. Each line holds a story, a heartbeat, a culture speaking without sound.

I am fascinated not by the exotic alone, but by the living pulse of life everywhere. In Japan, the careful balance of history and neon. In Seoul, the energy that hums beneath every crowded street. In Manila, the warmth and chaos intertwined, unashamed and alive. These are not places I have touched, yet I feel them as vividly as I feel the echo of my own heartbeat.

I do not want to consume. I want to witness. I want to understand. I want to walk with reverence, to listen with attention, to respect the lives unfolding around me, and to see what is beautiful without taking it for my own. Language, culture, custom—these are windows into the souls of people, and I am endlessly curious.

Even in dreams, I travel, carrying notebooks, pens, a hunger for connection. I meet people, learn their words, share their moments, and leave a piece of myself behind in the care with which I have observed.

This is how I show love to the world I do not yet fully know. Through attention, through curiosity, through presence. And perhaps, one day, when my feet touch those streets, I will not only observe, but belong in some way, however fleeting.

Until then, I will listen. I will watch. I will learn.

Drifting Without Roots: A Poem on Cultural Identity and Longing
A confessional poem exploring envy of cultural heritage, the ache of disconnection, and the search for belonging in a fractured identity.

Sep 17, 2025 8:37 PM

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Shuddup, Feminist

Rowan Evans

Oh, you’re a feminist, huh?
Shuddup, Feminist™—
stop waiting for a gold star
just because you believe women deserve the same rights.
You’re just the white-knight hero
with a keyboard and a coffee shop membership.

You post your virtue
like it's an Instagram caption—
#FeminismForEveryone
except when it's inconvenient for your fragile ego.

You say "I support women,"
but have you ever given up space
in a conversation you dominate
or asked her what she really needs
instead of handing her your unsolicited "help"?

You tweet "empowerment,"
but you’ll cross the street to avoid it
when it means being allies to women of color
or trans women with stories you’re scared to listen to.

You clap back at mansplaining,
but still ask her to explain why she’s so emotional
when she stands up for herself.
You march for rights,
then silence her voice when she asks for a seat at the table.

Oh, but you care about women's issues—
until a woman dares challenge your "perfect feminism"
with her lived experience.
Don’t let your fragile pride
be the real fight you’re avoiding.

You preach equality,
but when was the last time you gave up power
just for the hell of it?
Feminism’s not about you,
it’s about listening, not talking over her.

You say “But I’m a good guy”—
good, but you're still a part of the problem,
dodging accountability behind a slogan.
Don’t hide behind the “I’m a feminist” card
when it’s just another way
to keep the power without the responsibility.

Shuddup, Feminist™—
You’re not a savior,
you’re just a tourist in the movement.
Put down the hashtagand pick up some real change.

Apr 29, 2025 11:44 PM

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Tag: writing