In a teacup dictionary poem the dictionary word is the title. Each following line must define the word, but drops one syllable per line, starting with the first line descending until there is a one syllable word that defines the dictionary word.
The next line, must have the same number of syllables as the dictionary word and makes an observation about the dictionary word or the preceding lines. The poem is usually centered on the page.
The teacup dictionary poem was created by Rose Jones in 2009.
Ok, so...this was definitely not the direction I was intending to head in when I first started, but oh well.♀️ #bluepup#chaosc#bayentry#bluestory •~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~• Unheeded ~~~~~~~~ I laid a claim on a handwritten note like a silent star giving you a secret place to safely lay your wishes and tuck them in gently, or, perhaps, more like a student passing a confession in class to a deskmate; they both can be applied except the note I sent to you said, “HELP.”
I reported my sighting of a monster under my bed to, you, who I thought would care more about the potential danger her little daughter was in, yet you sighed, tired of my “antics” and begged me to visit dreamland already as if I was talking about the tooth fairy instead of a demon. You shoved the narrow length of my shoulders, steering my small body towards the bedroom like a stroller carrying a crying baby whose cries you ignore just so you can do your own thing for once, because, apparently, a child’s needs mustn't get in the way of a parent’s hobbies. I remember how I grasped onto the sides of the doorway as soon as a single foot of mine passed the threshold to a world that didn’t belong to only me anymore. I heard a howl from the wolf nudging me forward, “Quit being difficult!” and then a growl, “Get in bed already. Mommy’s show is about to come on.” In that moment, I was prey to both the fiend creeping underneath the designated spot where I slept as well as the beast forcing me into a room inside its den.
There was a physical struggle, but the weaker of us soon lost- me being the weak child. You picked me up and flung me onto the sheets making some stuffed animals jump in protest of your harsh actions. I bawled my eyes out while roaring at you to let me go- to let me out and not make me stay. My trembling fingers gripped tightly as what little of my chewed nails were left drilled into the skin of your arms, trusting in a possible miracle of "maybe the wolf that dragged me onto the dining table would lose its appetite and be so kind as to guide me back to a home I once cherished." Nevertheless, a wolf is deaf to food’s idea of compromise. After scraping me off of your forelimbs as if the pain and fear my heart felt were nothing but leftover smudges of blood unworthy of being licked off the plate, you cast aside my carcass for a demonic vulture to scavenge from meanwhile going in search for another delicacy to feast on. My bones, frozen stiff, were left with nothing to do but lie in wait for what the beings of the afterlife had planned for me.
Lying atop the veiled mattress, under the quilt tying me down like a nameless tombstone, I stared at the ceiling fan spinning ‘round and ‘round as it counted down the residual moments I had remaining on earth. The tiny breeze of air it offered me wasn’t enough to revive the breaths I didn’t dare breathe. No longer could I watch my moments leave me with each revolution, thus I squeezed my eyes shut tight to deny the inevitable. It was then, as if the semi-blink of denial was the cue, that I heard a scritch-scratch crawl along the wooden floorboards- a sound evocative of claws being dragged down a chalkboard but evoking dread rather than vexation. A brief thought flew across the chaos of my quaking mind, “It feels like my face is turning blue from holding in my breath, but if I let the breath go, it’ll hear me…but...surely, it already knows where I am, so it wouldn’t matter, right?”
~~ The Next Morning ~~
A single mother woke at dawn to discover why the warnings, from children all over the world, of the “monster under the bed” should be heeded.
This is our practice run for the @say_me_krish "My word you Collab" challenge. This is our team, 7Quills and the word we attempted is Solivagant.
This is written from the POV of seven different solivagants.
SOLIVAGANT (PART I)
Without a speck of doubt, with personal observation and experience, I found myself fit to state that outer darkness is never more or less intense; it is always as gloomy as our grave thoughts and for my eyes last night was blinding.
While I was walking down the grey pavement after the last visit to the melancholic edifice of the hospital, situated on the outskirts of the town, I discovered myself strolling on a dull and drab place. I wondered how that could be; the stagnant pastry shops smelled of ashes and the time in the clocks at the clockmaker's workshop had come to an eternal rest.
Staring at my feet striding in a restless manner, I was forced to embrace that perpetuity lingers until and unless we have someone to remind us of the happy and sad pauses. And I had lost that someone; my surroundings couldn't budge me because all I did was glare at my short steps blankly. There was no one I could look up to, someone who could stuff back the sense in me to feel.
The dark was gripping its hold on everything in sight, I didn't know how the sky looked like or if the zephyr even blew, cause blankness was my only emotion. I continued walking throughout the night, accompanied by desolation, purposelessness and a fear that the path was long and I had to tread it alone.
Bitter sweet teardrops from the sky suffocate my lungs. Standing alone with a rose, its fragile thorns bend around me. The clock stops and the mob is moving in slow motion, as i crushed the rose within my palms. My heart shattered into pieces with my own hands.
Breaking into the cracks, it's making trivial attempts to reach hullabaloo of sadness; rain hides my sweaty cheeks like a paper stack lullaby amidst of chaos and madness.
Pressing, pulling, haunting, then hope just gave up on me. I am a solivagant shadow of darkness with a baggage of remorse wandering through freezing woods, vaporising the water drops who wants to be free.
As I sit listlessly on the side of my bed, I count the remaining hours left until daylight, the hours which allow me to finally tear off my masks, light up the flares in my eyes and the hours that permit me to show the scars criss-crossed on my back. Every night, I wearily collect my composure and limbs together, corrupted by the blood oozing out from my shard-infested heart and brush away the tears that’re snatching my vision away from me. Every night, i pick up my pen, filled with the blood- smelling of regret and ashes- that life took From me using the sword called reality.every night, I dive into the waters of my words, head first and meander between salty currents reeking of tears and the sweet waves of the future, reeking of hope, like a nomad with no direction (a dangerous combination). For now at night, I am a solivagant, meandering between hell and heaven, sonnet and epistle, all through poetry. Every night, I turn my scars into rhymes, wounds into acrostics, and regrets into deceiving haikus, and give life to my tales of burnt roses and resurrected demons. And when dawn beckons me, I compose an ending and disguise the last line, with a full stop, a mask for a semi-colon. I emerge from these waters. I keep my literary transfusions aside and burn the sonnets I found, as I merge and meet with the darkness again, and close my eyelids, with quietude that doesn’t suit me.