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It took a long time for me to consider myself a writer. I still struggle with saying it. I started writing at a young age to work through feelings I didn’t dare tell anyone. I learned that once you start writing, it becomes a part of you. It’s something you always go back to whenever you are overwhelmed with certain emotions. People don’t always listen to your words, but the paper always listens to the pen.

the element of air.

the element of air.

wild wisps of wind. heat-seeking breeze. sirroco. samoon. shamal. the way it smells. the way those smells carry memories. ocean waves or fields of flowers or fresh-baked bread. grandmother’s kitchen in the spring with the doors open and pie on the windowsill. the...

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impermanence.

impermanence.

night strolls towards day crawling inch by slow inch until amaranth blooms across the black because not even the dark plays for keeps love propels us to the moonlight but we are icarus when the sun rises we shake the embers wash off the soot until only the smell of...

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yuletide sunrise.

yuletide sunrise.

yawning skies stretch, and underneath the blankets of clouds, a lazy sun rises over snow crested peaks eager light reaching for tired eyes and cold bodies, illuminating darkened window panes and dripping down tree limbs until every surface is bathed in warmth - ashley...

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there is magic in her bones.

there is magic in her bones.

you’ll find her in the treehouse made of ash and alder, an ancient soul locked inside a heart that beats through fear and strength do you not see the charm in her ruins? the petals that bloom from dropping limbs when the darkness rose, she flooded it with scattered...

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i only ever wished you well.

i only ever wished you well.

we tried in vain to find some comfort, a lesson in the language of the almost lover, olive branch extended through the cold dark night still, i hope you find the warmth i left behind, the embers that still smolder when the dawn begins to rise -ashley jane

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clover and chaos.

clover and chaos.

wild whispers tumble through the honeysuckle vines, celtic zen legends imparting magic into the land where we crush green clovers beneath our feet we are madness and chaos and luck and joy, lips of absinthe spilling blessings in poetry -ashley jane

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