I am the Dyslexic Poet

An unedited poem expressing the struggles of writing with dyslexia from school-age to present day.

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Words I love a contradistinction in terms,
To write poetry to enjoy the response,
When the power of words are like a volcano,
Desprat to flow, with the molten larther of words.

As a kid, I struggled with words to learn to read them,
May as well be Chinese as English I was learning,
Books were like looking a throe sweet shop window,
Or a toy shop, looking at all those treshurs chocolates, tongue licking my lips
Then look in the next dore toy shop window, at cars, “broom broom,”
With pockets empty of any money, beyond me.

After what seams half a life, I climbed the mounting, I learnt to read,
The treshures of books was now mine to enjoy, all my old dad had told me
Was so true, so many adventuress, travailed so far, in time so many lands,
The people I have met, heroes, cowards all I have I have met,
Fell in love, hated to, made friends, enamys to.

Learnt so mutch, history being my thing, learnt to see we are not so diffrant,
That we are all the same under the skin, we have more in common than we are different,
Books are for us to read, read other books, look for the truth what eaver that may be,
The truth can heart, that we know all to well.

Eavan as a kid, I found I liked to write, but no one could fathan out what I wrote,
Wrote first my emprestion of a film about an African tribe, this at primary school I was ten,
It was put in to school magazine, not that I or family got to see it,
Teachers, school governesses did, but not us, not me.

The sead was sowed, just waiting to germinate, break free,
Grow high to reach the sky, the stars,
When I was but a boy of thirteen I wrote a story based apon my paternal grandfather,
Of him in world war one, it made it to the mag and yes I, we got to read it,
It must have been rather good as the deputy head asked me to write poetry on war,
What of a lad of early teens still at school know about war? I declined.

Now yes I could, not from experance of war, of battles fault, but from books I have read,
Savivers I have listand to, of my imaganaston,
This work is so confoust, I can but hope in time it will make seance.

The Dyslexic Wordsmith.

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