it is mine until it is yours

The words I write are mine to share and yours to soak up. Most of the time, they come from things that inspire me—a line from a song, a moment in a film, a word I overheard on the radio. Admitting that most of my writing is fiction feels strange, though, as if I’m exposing a secret I’ve been holding onto. Sometimes, it feels like saying this makes me less real, as though I’m not allowed to claim the emotions in my poems because they didn’t come directly from my life.

But here’s the thing—I know how to write words that pull at emotions. I think deeply, and I love playing with metaphors. Writing, for me, is about creating something that connects, not necessarily about reflecting my reality. My life is steady, full of love. I’m not searching for anything or anyone. I’ve been happily married for 25 years—17 of those as husband and wife—and I have no reason to wish for something else. My writing comes from imagination, not longing.

Yet, today, I found myself wondering if my poetry could be hurting people. Could someone take it the wrong way? Could my words, written as fiction, stir something painful in someone who reads them? That’s not something I’ve thought about much before, but I can’t seem to shake the question now.

Poetry is such a personal experience, both for the writer and the reader. I can never really know what someone else will see in my words. A line I wrote because it sounded beautiful might hit someone else like a memory, a loss, a wound. That’s the thing about poetry—it’s wide open. Ambiguity gives it life, lets it move in different directions, but it also leaves room for misinterpretation.

And maybe that’s where my doubt comes in. Am I leaving my poems too open, too vague? Are my metaphors too broad? Or is that the whole point—that readers bring their own experiences to my words, making the meaning their own?

I think that’s part of what makes writing so powerful, but it’s also why it feels risky. The moment I put my words out there, they stop being only mine. I can’t control how they’re read or what they mean to someone else. That’s exciting, but it’s also humbling. It makes me wonder if I’m doing justice to my readers or if I’m leaving them with more questions than answers.

But the truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever fully know. Writing is a kind of trust—trusting that what I’ve created will find its way to the people who need it, even if it’s not in the way I intended. Fiction or not, my words come from a place of honesty, even when they’re imagined. And maybe that’s enough.

So, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep creating worlds and emotions out of thin air, trusting that my words will land where they’re meant to. Whether they comfort, challenge, or spark something unexpected, I hope they resonate. Because at the end of the day, isn’t that the beauty of writing?

It’s mine until it’s yours.