A temporary workspace for TWC writers who are between blogs, feeling burnt out, or fed up. Relax. Write. Give no fucks.

What if time is just a tape left playing? Cyclical and constant. Most people would imagine it is a blank tape but it isn’t so. There is this wonderful background noise, I think it’s the hum of existence. You know, the more and more I listen the more sure I am that you are the skip in the tape.

When you want to cry

but all you can do is laugh

sorrow behind smiles.

The moon hides behind the gloom of the clouds
,and the trees are as restless as the ocean. The clouds seems close enough to touch right now
and the sky seems just wide enough to imagine.

Words of a good man


I told her in my most honest voice, “I’m not the type to cheat, but if I do I’ll be sure she is just as bad as you are”.

      She studied her face in the mirror and saw every imperfection no one else could see. Every clogged pore, every crease. But more than that, she saw her past. She could see tear stains from cries long ago like they were yesterday. She could see the mascara running down her face even though she wasn’t wearing any. She could feel the tears pooling around her lips and taste the salty reminders. You couldn’t see it, but she could.

      After staring at herself for too long, her eyes started to burn. Closing them tightly she imagined her reflection from the back of her dry eyelids. She saw what she wanted to see, who she wanted to be. She saw straight teeth through a perfect smile and eyes shining bright with content, not tears. Every stain began to lift and evaporate like they never existed, like she never cried as hard as she did. You couldn’t imagine it, but she could.

      Opening her eyes again she saw what everybody else saw, nobody. 


When the world is not alright, but you are

I see the tears in your eyes,

because you cannot make that right.

When the world feels like darkness but all you see is light,

I feel the warm presence of your arms,

And when the world has started shaking, when everything has crumbled,

You remain the one still thing, in my world,

Smile for me, just once

reflect something you do not see;

Mirror on the wall.


There was a gun in the bathtub. 
She said she liked to wash in her own filth. 
Gravity pulled the water from its home in the sewers
In the belly of the city into the veins of the building
Into the tub.
Scalding hot. 
She said she didn’t want her skin anymore, she said it 
scratched and scarred at the slightest touch. 
She said the water could have it. 

But the water cooled and her skin remained, 
Red flushes covered her like a patchwork quilt being unpicked. 
Fingers slipped over the plug, 
reaching to steadily unfill the tub, herself. 

There was a gun in the bathtub, 
A gun with limbs and muscles and neurons 
and blood. 

I’m back in my grave.

I grew up crooked
into a body that feels more 
like a foreign country
than my own. If you’re here,
it’s because you feel sorry
I was born. I don’t mind, I
like our quiet lunches by the
dock, the sea air wrapping
us with light, watercress
crunching between our teeth.
It’s a pretty life, you say, and
I say yes, pretty. Sometimes,
though, at an odd hour, or an
odd angle of light, I want to say
yes, this is pretty, but I’m 
always on the edge of falling apart.
And you: always waiting for a good 
reason to leave. I told you I wanted
us to be together, just not like this.

I send you hearts in the post,
hoping they’ll make you smile,
when you open your mail one day
and think of me,
the distance means I cannot touch you,
though I can hear your  voice, reaching me
over the many miles of sea and sky,
I hope you will always be,
my Valentine.

I send you hearts in the post,

hoping they’ll make you smile,

when you open your mail one day

and think of me,

the distance means I cannot touch you,

though I can hear your  voice, reaching me

over the many miles of sea and sky,

I hope you will always be,

my Valentine.

Monsoon Season

A constant flow of water, 
Trickles through my mind, 
soft as the last of the afternoon light, 
hovering on the horizon, 
dangerous as the cataclysmic coastal crazes 
whose waves crash upon jagged cliffs 
and batter the beautifully breakable corals. 

A child on the oceans edge, 
Pulled away. So it falls, clumsily clasping at water, 
At rocks. At anything to keep itself afloat. 
A blemished dream keeps it from breathing in the air, 
But the same tattered remains keeps it from submerging completely.

It struggles, it strikes, it submits
To weave itself inside the lines,
Biding its time, 
To burst forth, 
And find strength in the arms of its oppressor. 


Money doesn’t soak in the guilt. 
It slides sideways slipping onto 
The hands of the sinless, 
The unsuspecting. 

It falls. It turns, it spins, 
A shooting star. 
Beautiful and foreign but yielding
Only death.  

Cold blooded mammals, 
With jolly waves, jolly smiles and jolly calls for trust. 
Caught in the biggest jail of all, the ever stretching, ever twinkling stars. 

They watch. 
The innocent slip. 
They’re earthbound equivalents plummet,
Nose five with fastened wallets off the surface
Out of the atmosphere
Into the biggest lie of all;

before you came into my life, it was a bliss.
when you were in my life, it was chaos.
now that you’ve left i just feel fucking empty.

i hate you.

it’s been a year. 
stop chasing after me.

i don’t want it anymore.

*writers block*

There’s a rhythm to my thoughts, that keeps my syllables in line; or artistically out of it. But my fingers gravitate towards the backspace more than any other key (or lock). The words come, or rather stutter onto the page but the story stands still. The word count is the only thing to progress. The rhythm is gone, or never was.

A leaf falls
Dead. Other brown 
and begin to decay.
Roots grow deeper
The only things to penetrate the earth.
To make a mark.

The leaf falls, 
A wisp of smoke escapes
A bonfire disappearing into the atmosphere.
The charred earth leaves, 
The blackened corpses of ants, 
No coffins, no pastor, no weeping widows.

We step over the earth, 
Tred tired footpaths with tired feet, 
Desert tracks the colour of flame, 
With sand that swallows our steps.

We skate over the surface. 

Meanwhile the roots grow deeper, 
Entwine in unseen labyrinths. 
The fire spreads. 
The smoke, the leaves disappear. 
A missing person’s case.