Mr. Bag Man,
Let go of your rucksack.

There’s only one carryon the bus will let you carry on,
Those bags will only slow you down,
My hand is here to pull you out,
Of the hurts from the past that haunt you.

Bag man,
You’ll hurt your back like that,
Dragging all those bags behind you.

Pack light.

They’ll only get in your way,
And make moving harder for you.

Mr. Bag man,
All you need is you.

Let me guide you to,
The new place designed for you.

Those bags will crowd you space.
Let go of them at a pace that works for you.

Mr. Bag Man,
Let go of those bags,
You’ll miss your bus like that.

If you can’t hurry up,
She’ll leave you at this stop,
with your stuff,
And you can’t miss this bus,
Another won’t wait for you.

It’ll be hard.
The past can hurt too much,
But let her love guide you.

Mr. Bag Man,
Let it go,
All you need is you,
And her love,
In this new place she’ll take you.

echoes of guilt cause  
an avalanche of sorrow;
we’re buried alive.

As I stood there,
cleaning my closet,
In the middle of a bunch of lovely trinkets—
I realised, I had baggage.
A lot of it. It wasn’t just stuff.

It wasn’t just an old sweater,
—It was the smell of him.
And perhaps the lovely necklace
that reminded me of school—
Or the cutest folded letter I forgot
Someone gave me, years ago..

How could I let go?

But it was moving day.

Boxes weren’t that large to fit everything.

I had to choose.

Which ones would stay..


               And which….  

                          
                              I had to let go.

Your self sabotage is a transient orchestration
in soft pursuit of a potent vexation,
juggling vices as a decade old
one trick pony
circling pastures to meet itself
in the middle of an argument;

You’ll dawdle in the toy aisle,
linger in the doorway,
and parse the wounds of
a family member standing afield;

It could end when you let it,
yet the turmoils have you rattled
like a baby shower gift
presented in glass,
refracting sandy memories
that turned to pleas by a
roadside marquee;

Lone hotel escapades
with uncertainties
set sights on useful
youthful hastenings
brigaded into shoe boxes,
skipped lunches,
and a forgotten birthday
and ripple harm into a harmful world
while we reel at the
second hand trauma
which announces your presence;

The countless open-minded scars
that set you apart
can consume all but echoes,
reminiscent of muddy punk tunes
appearing out of thick air
and plucked with the vengeance
of a forsaken child
who never had enough candles to
blow out,
who conceded happiness to pollinate
fall out,
who branched into nothing to escape
burn out
and who stitched longings into trials
that all end with the conviction
of a jealous ghost

Forget the book and candle.
The creaking comes with age.
You know those rattling panes
are taunted by branches left
uncut by you in lazy summer.

Do not lock the door and run.
Ghosts are particular. Always
with us, they thrive in three-ply
boxes, and in packed suitcases.
When you are ready, they are too.


Tony Noon

I wanted you to know
Not from anger or spite
Just a sort of insight
A slight glimpse into
My shadowed side
But I'm afraid you can't hold
They are really harsh, crude and snide

I never would lie to you
But you'd cry if you knew
What life has been like
From my point of view

The hurt the fear

I never would lie to you
But you'd cry if you knew
What life has been like
From my point of view

The hurt the fear
The past that's so near
Memories so clear
They felt like yesterday
It seems never ending no matter how I pray
I struggle, I fall, I stand again.
There's just no end to how much I've got to pay

You say, you're sorry
Misunderstood me;
But no, seriously
It's not your fault truly.

I wanted to change
For the better, if only
It's just too late
I'm doomed
That's my fate

Let **** go,
You can't see the world
If you're carrying it on your shoulders