Ashlie to Ashes

03/04/2026

8 ways to descibe my voice as a writer:

1. Celestial‑emotional: I blend the cosmic with the intimate. Eyes become galaxies, love becomes prophecy, pain becomes weather, identity becomes starlight.

2. Vulnerable: My honesty is steady and intentional. I don’t hide my wounds, but I don’t dramatize them either.

3. Sensory‑driven: My writing is saturated with color, texture, temperature, light, and the body. I want readers to feel the words.

4. Romantic‑mythic: I tend to mythologize the people I adore — stargirls, foxgloves, caramel light, tidal‑wave eyes, bronze souls.

5. Philosophical & introspective: I ask big questions — about meaning, perception, connection, relevance, fulfillment. I turn inward not to spiral, but to understand.

6. Rhythmic: My work is incantatory. I use repetition like a spell — circling, returning, deepening.

7. Yearning: Softly. There’s always a thread of longing, even in joy — and a thread of hope, even in darkness.

8. Mythic tenderness: I write love as sacred, pain as survivable, identity as ever‑evolving. Gentle, but not fragile. Strong, but not hard.



https://linktr.ee/ashlietoashes

03/04/2026

Your writing voice isn’t something you “find.” It’s something you uncover by writing toward what feels true — what feels like you.

For the longest time, I didn’t understand what it meant to have a voice. And once I finally understood the concept, I still couldn’t recognize my own. I kept asking myself — more often than I’d like to admit — “What is my voice?”

Eventually, I realized this:
Your voice is your fingerprint. It’s the signature you leave on every piece of art you create. It’s what makes your prose recognizable, engaging, and emotionally resonant.

How did I uncover mine?

I keep everything I write — every note, every idea, every whim, even the journal entries that never see the light of day. By revisiting my own work, I started to notice patterns. And within those patterns, my voice became unmistakable.

So what is my voice?

It’s a blend of emotion, intelligence, and sensory detail—

If I had to distill it into one sentence:
My voice is a sensory‑romantic palette grounded in emotional truth.

I knew my voice was real when it showed up across my poems and my manuscript — when it felt natural, not forced. When I wrote as if there were no other way to say it. When it felt like home, even as the subject changed.

As it turns out, I didn’t “find” my voice. I’ve been writing in it all along.

What about you — how would you describe your voice?



https://www.linkedin.com/posts/ashlie-killian_writingcommunity-writingtips-mindfulwriting-activity-7432794188498489344-cv67?utm_source=share&utm_medium=member_ios&rcm=ACoAAGOajWYBemI299k8wpfhawy6tEAlOgvUW_8

Https://linktr.ee/ashlietoashes

03/04/2026

Your writing voice isn’t something you “find.” It’s something you uncover by writing toward what feels true — what feels like you.

For the longest time, I didn’t understand what it meant to have a voice. And once I finally understood the concept, I still couldn’t recognize my own. I kept asking myself — more often than I’d like to admit — “What is my voice?”

Eventually, I realized this:
Your voice is your fingerprint. It’s the signature you leave on every piece of art you create. It’s what makes your prose recognizable, engaging, and emotionally resonant.

How did I uncover mine?

I keep everything I write — every note, every idea, every whim, even the journal entries that never see the light of day. By revisiting my own work, I started to notice patterns. And within those patterns, my voice became unmistakable.

So what is my voice?

It’s a blend of emotion, intelligence, and sensory detail—

If I had to distill it into one sentence:
My voice is a sensory‑romantic palette grounded in emotional truth.

I knew my voice was real when it showed up across my poems and my manuscript — when it felt natural, not forced. When I wrote as if there were no other way to say it. When it felt like home, even as the subject changed.

As it turns out, I didn’t “find” my voice. I’ve been writing in it all along.

What about you — how would you describe your voice?



https://www.linkedin.com/posts/ashlie-killian_writingcommunity-writingtips-mindfulwriting-activity-7432794188498489344-cv67?utm_source=share&utm_medium=member_ios&rcm=ACoAAGOajWYBemI299k8wpfhawy6tEAlOgvUW_8

Https://linktr.ee/ashlietoashes

02/19/2026

An Old Soul, I Am:

What am I?

Older than time,
Wise beyond years—
A gross understatement.
An old soul,
Exactly what I am.

Not like others,
A heart with roots
Millennia‑aged.
An old soul—
In truth, I am.

A vibrancy,
Source energy
In Earth’s given avatar.
An old soul,
Walking, breathing, I am.

https://linktr.ee/ashlietoashes (Instagram, LinkedIn, Email, Skool, WhatsApp)

02/15/2026

Weltschmerz:

My fingers type feverishly.
Trembling as they hit each key.
Fingertips bleeding blue ink.
Always in a hurry,
To get things down on paper.
Or on screen.
Just to try and bury it.

Wondering if it's all irrelevant.

Repetitive thoughts.
A racing heart.
A body wound too tight.
I can’t think straight.
Is this apathy—
Or waves of depression,
My anxiety and I have to fight off?

What does this mean; Is any of it relevant?

I try to name it.
Feel it.
Tell the truth of it.
Share my scars and ghosts,
Even as the coldest shadows,
Lean in close,
Whispering despair into my ear.

Does this Weltschmerz matter at all?

Do I keep trying,
Keep writing–
Even with trembling fingertips?
It's sad I need external validation,
In moments like these.
But I'm only human, you see.
Simple as can be.

Would any ear find this necessarily relevant?

Can I survive the fallout,
If there even is any?
Can I try, finding motivation,
To keep pushing forward?
Can I keep faith in my pen,
Even when the bleaks creeps in,
Or is my written word silent—

And my experiences irrelevant?

https://linktr.ee/ashietoashes

02/08/2026

Until The End of Time

Until my energy dissipates,
And my life's memories
Are no longer passed down…

When my name is spoken,
For the absolute last time—
That is when I'll truly die.

Yet, even in that fading,
My forevermore remains:
I'll love you, I'll hold on to you.

Your golden eyes,
Forever residing in my every heartbeat,
Grounded in our never-ending love—

I take you as you are,
And all you’re still becoming.
So, until then My Love…

https://linktr.ee/ashlietoashes

02/01/2026

Masks:

Each one different—
in size and style.
Fitted perfectly
for whoever stands before me.

Each one different—
with logic and heart.
Strategically placed,
a mirror shaped to match each soul.

A full‑bodied mask:
stone, Egyptian clay—
hardening perfectly
around the family ties I once felt bound to.
With every passing moon,
The stone sets unbreakable.
For survival,
I wear it proudly to sever what still clings.

Tied full‑face:
a piece of fine art—
fitted perfectly
for friends and acquaintances offering their insight.
Their stories, their lessons
loosen the tightness of this mask,
almost freeing.
I learn from every face I meet.

A partial cover:
leather and lace—
shifting perfectly
for any lover who holds me close.
Not just a body,
but energies I’m drawn to, needing.
To be near them
is to sit in unfiltered comfort and peace.

Something sheer:
for strangers in the street, smiling honestly—
camped on corners, making pavement home.
Transparency on concrete—
among those who feel invisible,
I feel most at ease.
Their eyes see through me,
and I welcome the reflection.

A mirror:
Eyes locked on eyes,
Shedding perfectly—
When every other mask falls away, freeing!
Only then do I feel,
Wholly, utterly me.
Only I can look into these blues,
And love myself with ease.



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01/30/2026

Like a Chameleon:

You take my pain, I take yours.
I heal me, I heal you.

When I’m gray, I paint you gray.
When I’m golden, I paint you golden.

When I’m charcoal, I paint you burnt—
Two shades of blue, me and you.

You told me not to worry,
Worry about you, too.
My pain is yours;
You ease this burden,
A shoulder to lean on—
But now we’re both so blue.

When I’m golden, I paint you golden:
Two yellow sunflowers, side by side.

When I’m dark and twisted, I paint you askew.
Is it twisted of me, doing it unknowingly?

When you take my pain, I take yours away.
I heal you while I heal me.

Like a chameleon,
I shift my masking colors.
And like me,
I paint you into a chameleon.
Now you see me.
Now you feel me.

When I’m mauve, I paint you mauve—
Two shades of pink, lovers becoming.

When I’m red, I paint you red—
Two feverish earth signs, you and I.

When I’m green, I paint you green—
Contentment in beige, you and me, eh?

I give you every shade I carry,
Even the ones that bruise.
I’m stepping off the edge of myself,
trusting you’ll meet me where I land.

When I’m silver, I paint you silver—
Finding truth in silver linings and golden chances.

When I find me, you end up finding you;
Following in my every footstep, love.

Like a chameleon, I am—
Inviting you into a lifetime of you and I.

01/27/2026

01/26/2026

Sometimes I Wish...

Sometimes I wish I was an unfathomable presence
In a land that needs grace
Sometimes I wish I was a foreign beauty
One to start wars
Or end them
In hopes of getting a shimmering glimpse
Of my inner light
Never fight or flight
Sometimes I wish…

Sometimes I wish I had the brains to keep people
Captivated, interested
Sometimes I wish I could bring sinners and saints
So very alike
To their flesh given knees
Wanting a taste of my sweet tales, illuminating words
Dripping off my lips like honey
And the rivers and fjords in my heart
Sometimes I wish…

Sometimes I wish they’d all hang around my finger
In various shades of stone
Sometimes I wish promises were made, simple mindedly
Of visions they can’t empathize with
My every word, their gospel
My every move, mesmerizing
My parting lips, seducing
My angelic eyes, hypnotizing
Sometimes I wish…

Sometimes I wish I could call it out for what is is
Tell them the truth and show them how I feel
Sometimes I wish they’d call me by my name: a spade!
Knowing I could be a diamond in the rough.
I’d make them see
How life is tough
Sometimes I wish I didn’t give a f**k
Only scared to face it
Sometimes I wish…



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