meloostraightfromhertilt-a-world

      Poet's Home             All Poetry       Sign Up!  Login
© 2000-2018 Individual Authors of the Poetry. All rights reserved by authors.   295227 Poems Read.

Search for Poetry

   


Read Poetry
Home, Ghuey, Sweet Home

Call This Our Autumn

Nothing's Sadder Than A Rose

It Feels Better To Be Unfinished (Wish-Unspoken, But With My Eyes)

Evidence



Afterwards...

Falling Leaf, Falling Man/Woman, Rising Star

It Comes At Night

The Hot Seasons

Perhaps I Too, Was Frozen

You Are (I'm Here With You)

Joyce Will Soon Be Seventy-Something

All Too Clearly Now

So You Do (May 10, 2010 written for June 1987)

Oh What A Fall

Last In Class

If This Is Any Art For Which You Care

Its About Waking In The Middle Of The Night And Having To Write It All Down

in-EFFECTIVE (Fragile)

I Long For Stars

From The Point Of A Star

Someone Send Out A Search Party

This Is It

If I Were Your Island....

Spokes Spoken

Plain Speakin' (Lyrical Poem)

All Beings Considered

It Is The Rain

Like a Small Child Tucked Into

I Talk To A Machine In My Darkness

Its Their Problem

Not For The Bloom of Tears Cultivated These Last 100 Years

More Poetry >>

 
Features

  Sign Guestbook

Read Guestbook

 
   

And With Words I Let Them Go


I said to them
"You don't need me..."
"You just think you do."
And with these words
I let them go.

Some days I am enough for myself.
And I have miles yet to go.

Its been a long hard winter.
I trudged the miles mostly on my own.
Its not as if I didn't ask.
I did.
They were met with not even a care or a groan.
Nor kind words found in a simple letter.
I knew I could do much better
alone.

And with those words
I told them
with straight-through-the-front-door conviction:

"I let you go."


July 3, 2017 9am PST
legal copyright for this poem/work and also for
this author/writer Melissa A. Howells
and also for this legally copyrighted site title
meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World





Vote for this poem

Please Comment On This Poem

Comments

 Email Address

 

Vote for this poem