The Library of Ashes
Here, every poem is a smoldering page — whispered confessions, soft ruins, and sacred rage. Wander newest to oldest.
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Shuddup, Feminist
Oh, you’re a feminist, huh?Shuddup, Feminist™—stop waiting for a gold starjust because you believe women deserve the same rights.You’re just the white-knight herowith a keyboard and a coffee shop membership.You post your virtuelike it’s an Instagram caption—#FeminismForEveryoneexcept when it’s inconvenient for your fragile ego.You say “I support women,”but have you ever given up spacein a
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Shuddup, Nice Guy
Oh, you’re the “nice guy,” huh?Shuddup, Nice Guy™—your kindness isn’t a currencyand you sure as hell can’t cash inon empty compliments and unsolicited advice.You think opening the dooris the grand gesture?Buddy, if you’re looking for a medal,try doing something kindwithout expecting a reward.You say, “Women only like assholes.”Well, maybe it’s becauseyour idea of “nice” is
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Shuddup, Poet
Oh look—another poem about paindisguised as transformation.Another phoenix metaphoras if setting yourself on firewas ever the same as healing.You bleed onto the pageand call it sacred.But let’s be real—half the time, you don’t even feel it.You just know how to make it rhyme.Shuddup, Poet.You’re not writing epiphanies.You’re writing escape routes.Every stanza is a soft excusefor
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Sisters in Poetry III
I have heard the voices in the ink—Sylvia, the bell jar still echoing,her sorrow stitched into every breath I take.She speaks not in screams,but in a hush that silences the soul: “I shattered myself to show youwhat beauty can exist in broken things.My metaphors were knives and mirrors—and I turned them all inwardso you wouldn’t
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Sisters in Poetry II
In the shadows of ink, where ghosts still linger,Sylvia, Anne, Emily, Sappho—poetesses, each a flame,Each a whisper in the wind that haunts the night,Each carving truth in starlit veins.Sylvia, whose words cut through the air,A sharp, sorrowed edge that carved despair into the sky,A dance of madness and brilliance,Her bell jar—her curse, her art, her
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Sisters in Poetry
In the darkened corridors of verse, where shadows weave, Sylvia and Anne dance, their words a somber hymn, Echoes of their pain and passion that we conceive, Their struggles with demons, their voices grim.Sylvia, with her haunting gaze of blue, Wrote of a world caught in despair’s tight clutch, In her “Ariel,” the fire of
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When She Says I’m Hers
If she whispers, I melt.If she commands, I kneel.It doesn’t take much—a glance, a breath,a shift in the weight of her silence—and I’m undone.There’s a kind of gravity in her,like the moon to my tides.I rise for her, crash for her,shape myself around the contoursof the world she’s trying to survive.I’ve listened to her sob,sat
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Ashes of Heaven (B.D. Nightshade)
I, the fallen, wear my wings of ash,A ruin of purity, torn and frayed,Once bathed in light, now draped in black,I seek the fire where Heaven decayed.They call me traitor, rebel, lost,An angel damned, forsaken, broken—Yet here I stand, at Heaven’s gate,A fallen star with words unspoken.The seraphs sing their hollow hymns,Their praises drip with
Poetry by Rowan Evans 