#dyslexia
my brain runs away too fast, it gets hernias,
writhing in typos and twitching over literary amnesias.
i'd try to write or speak words witty,
but i fumble and stutter, o! isn't that ******
if you asked me to type it, it would look like 'dixlesyas.'
Nov 21, 2025
Nov 21, 2025 at 10:35 PM UTC
I awoke at silly-o’clock. Made tea, and re(a)d.
Probably shouldn’t ree(a)d when I’m still sleep-blurry...
I re(a)d fork as frock. Thought- what the hell, to her mouth?
Didn’t seem that kind of novel.
I re(a)d Evil as Elvis. Thought- **** me, this guy’s really
got it in for dead rock n roll stars.
Spilled my tea laughing and ow’d.
It is painful being me.
Oct 31, 2020
Oct 31, 2020 at 6:12 AM UTC
Forget about speaking and understanding.
If someone writes in a different language
To your own,
You wouldn't even be able to read it.
At least at first glance.
I'm sure if you stare at it
Hard and long enough,
You'd be able to make out something.
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 4:14 AM UTC
Reading Vonnegut
I'm reading Vonnegut
I'm tired
Had to look up three words
In three pages
The app wanted more money
To view the words
In a sentence
I don't have the money
So the sentances remain
Unknown
I long to be more like Kurt
I dream intense
Repetitive dreams
My pen in my hand
Thoughts profound
I reside inside his followers
I want to go to a party
And quote meaningful texts
I want to join that society
'Catachresis'
Now there's a word for me
The writer inside me
Is trapped
Uncultured
Behind failed education
Inside a broken mind
Desperate to find those words
To explain my thoughts
Which are deep and saturated of
Feeling..... No one will hear me
My emotions frozen
Those three words
In three pages
Already evaporated
I have another four words now
Four more to research
Four more to skim my brain
To mock my intelligence
The app wants more money
I'm reading vonnegut
And I'm tired
May 13, 2020
May 13, 2020 at 10:29 PM UTC
Title; A young girl and a curse
What page are we on?
What number did she say?
"Ssssh stop asking questions"
"Be quiet"
"Go away"
Can you repeat the question please?
Could you demonstrate?
"Stop fooling around girl"
"We've moved on"
"You're just too late"
I can't quiet the words
The red it hurts my mind
"Up late watching TV
Were you?"
-"I'm guessing not mastermind!"
Please don't make fun of me
You'll only make it worse
"You'll have to learn to cope, child"
A YOUNG GIRL AND A CURSE
Jan 28, 2020
Jan 28, 2020 at 1:57 AM UTC
Maybe it's the faulty wiring of my circuits,
I don't seem to understand those around me,
I tell them don't trust me,
They say they love me,
But I will glitch, synapse misfire,
I'll become a villain in my program,
With no rhyme or reason,
I'll fail miserably to the hero,
That is my destiny,
But at least I'll know my fate,
Better than these faulty wires,
A maze of circuits that never know where to connect,
Is this what it's like to be human?..
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC
Social introverts and a shy extroverts.
Dyslectics grading better in spelling.
Deaf children who know more words.
People with anxiety better at selling.
Kids with ADHD who are more calm.
Autistics who can relate better.
Paralysed people able to feel their palm.
A blind person ready to read every letter.
Who could guess their equality.
Could you imagine, you can't tell 'em appart?
Who could even think of such a society.
Just look at this, humanity's piece of art!
Who could imagine I'm one of ''them''.
One alike you and the rest of this place.
For we all are a different kind of gem.
All shining in our own simple grace.
If there's a ''them'' and there's an ''us''.
But none can tell one from another.
Is there a ''them'' at all, thus.
Then why a ''them'', it's only a bother.
Aug 6, 2019
Aug 6, 2019 at 7:07 PM UTC
Dear Lori Loughlin and the unnamed individuals that participated in College Admissions Scam:
This is an open letter to you from someone who actually needs the accommodations that you ignorantly believed you could exploit. Before I talk about your ignorance let me first establish whom I am.
In the year of 2000, at the age of seven, a private psychologist diagnosed me with dyslexia because my elementary school refused to test me. Later on I find out that I have a severe case where the entire English language will be a continuous struggle for the rest of my life. Then we knew very little about this learning disability but from what I understood at that age, I was unable to learn at the same pace as my fellow classmates and my teachers didn’t know how to teach me. I bounced between three schools before the age of twelve looking for a school that could teach me and was unsuccessful. During that time was bullied profusely because of my dyslexia. I was called dumb, stupid, slow, and names that were so much worse. I knew they were not true. Luckily, I had parents that cared about my well being and never let me use my disability as an excuse as to why I couldn’t be success in life.
I was very fortunate that I was able to attend a school that specializes in teaching students like myself. Through no fault of mine, I was twelve years of age and reading at a third grade level. Does that make me stupid? Within three years at this very special school I gained six grade levels because I worked hard and I was determined to not be a failure. I entered into a high school that also knew how to teach me and I soared because I had the proper support that I need. I earned my Straight A’s in high school.
Also in high school I learned more about my accommodations that are protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act. I took the SAT’s twice and it was the worst sixteen hours of my life. Normally, it would take someone no more than one hundred and eighty minutes to complete. Not for me, and many others that actually rely on these accommodations. To be honest, no one wants to take an eight-hour test; we do it because it levels the playing field so we are able to compete with societal standards.
I wonder what led you to believe the accommodations that I require to be a successful student, that are protected by federal law, have some kind of advantage that I magically have in direct competition with your perfectly normal child. What kind of confidence do you have in your own child’s abilities if you felt the need to cheat and buy them their college admissions? It’s really sad if you think about it.
Whatever happened the notion of merit? I got into college on my own merit, My SAT scores were waived as my grades, class standing, and campus involvement was sufficient. (BTW, I not only had straight A’s but I graduated with high honors.) Am I smart now?
I am a currently pursuing my Master Degree in Fine Arts. I also got into that school with having to take the GRE, once again on my own merit. I know Lori you refuse to believe that you did anything wrong, but you did. You alienated an entire group of individuals so you could live vicariously through your child’s success as an extension of your own. That is not only the most selfish thing that anyone can do but it is also ignorant and narcissistic to believe having accommodations because of my disability is seen an “advantage” for you to manipulate for your own personal gain.
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 5:54 PM UTC
My Grandpa was given a challenge and an opportunity. I was diagnosed with dyslexia at age seven. He never had actual experience dealing with a child that had dyslexia. He wanted to impact my life in some way that did not involve reading, but was just as effective. He realized that if I would not be able to read then I should experience life instead. After talking with my mom, they came up with a plan for the summer. During my first trip to France, I was given the rare opportunity to see something new. He took me on the canals and showed me the county in a way that was not found in books.
It was an experience that I would never forget. At age seven, I did not do the same amount of work on the boat as everyone else. What I remember doing was coiling and collecting the lines (rope) and making them into perfect flat circles. When doing this, I was getting the lines ready for the next lock. At first the locks were scary. The tall cement walls were covered in green algae. I could hear the water spilling out at a rapped pace. The locks were filling with water, making the boat rise higher than we once were. When we finally reached the height of the water on the other side of the way out, the door opened and we started up again on to the next lock.
When we were on the boat in the canals, my Grandpa taught me how to live on a boat, work as a team, and to have patience. He always said to my mom and me, “you always need to find time to play, no matter how old you are.” That was what the summer was for. He always thought that you are never too old to have fun and act like a kid, now and then.
Working the canals on the boat was something that I picked up almost naturally. It felt like I already knew what I was doing and how it had to be done. I was working with my hands and keeping my mind off of school and the challenges I had there. Doing this gave me confidence and allowed me an opportunity to be successful.
School is much like the rough waters in the canal. Summer for me was a break from the formal education that I was failing at. In school, I had been falling behind and not getting the education that I needed. For instance, my reading level would get lower every year and teachers did not know what to do with me. So Grandpa tried to work around my dyslexia in a way that only I would get. This is something that no one else attempted. It felt amazing that I was doing something without realizing that I was learning too.
He also knew that I was interested in drawing. So along with the canal trips he took me to art museums to see paintings firsthand. While I walked through the galleries of the magnificent paintings, Grandpa would take his time reading every little blurb about every painting. Even though I could not read well enough to understand, I never understood why someone would read instead of looking at the paintings and letting them tell a story. In my mind, he was a walking encyclopedia, absorbing every scrap of information that he could. To me, he knew everything and he was willing to share it with me at every possible moment.
For the seventh summer together, he wanted to go on the Themes in England in order to see Windsor castle. I was thirteen, he was eighty-two, and this was the most memorable trip I ever had. With the excitement of a new adventure ahead we left port and it began. We went from working the locks and mooring the boat, watching movies on the boat that took place where we spent the night, and concocting new recipes with whatever we had on hand.
Two weeks after the trip we had together, Grandpa felt ill and sadly passed away. He died of leukemia. On his dying bed he completed every last minute detail before he died. Above all, he did not want his death to affect his grandchildren while they were at camp and school. He did not want them to know until after they were through, because he didn’t want them sad while they were supposed to be having fun. My mom honored that wish.
Two weeks after he died, my mom, Dad, and my little brother picked me up at the end of summer school. I was not expecting all of them to pick me up. When everything was set we left, but my mom did something out of the ordinary. She hopped in the back seat of the car. She did not look happy when she told me that Grandpa had died. I was shocked. I did not understand how it was possible. With all the mixed emotions, I cried on my mom’s lap the entire ride back home.
Now as I am growing closer to college and having my own life, I still think fondly of my grandpa and what he did. I still can’t believe that it had been more than five years ago since he passed away. Deep down, I know that if he was still alive today he would be so proud of me and the accomplishments that I made despite my dyslexia.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 9:49 AM UTC
Gazing out the window, it’s beautiful outside, letting my mind wandering into the distance daydreaming about the endless possibilities. Then someone slams a ruler on my desk that caught me by surprised I nearly jump out of my chair startled. It was the teacher glaring down at me spitefully.
“Eyes up here, Grace! You need to pay attention!” said the teacher. “Didn’t you hear me? Open your text book to page 300 and keep up!” My classmates started to giggle then the teacher walked back to the front of the classroom, chalk in hand and began to write on the chalkboard, letters that I couldn’t quite make out. The teachers words start to muffle as I try and locate my binder and pencil for notes but then I hear the teacher call my name “Grace” and I look up with fear in my eye hoping she did not just call on me to answer her question.
“Grace could you please come to the front and spell the word ‘BECAUSE’ on the board?” I knew this word but I don’t remember how to spell it. I really hate going to the front of the class because I always make a mistake. I slowly get up from my desk, my hands start to sweat, and the room goes silent as I walked, with my shoes squeaking on the tile floor louder than usual, up to the teacher. I take the chalk from the teacher’s hand. As I begin to write I freeze.
Paralyzed with fear I ask the teacher “I’m sorry, can you repeat the word that you wants me to spell?”
The teacher scoffed at me and even louder said, “The word is, ‘BECAUSE’!” I nodded my head trying to remember but my mind was blank, I remember using my markers to trace out the letters of each word but this one was particularly hard to remember. I started to write B…E…K…then I’m stuck, I start to panic and I write the remaining letters that sounded right A…Z. then I immediately place the chalk down on the teacher’s desk and walk as fast as I could back to my desk. The students all start to roar in laughter, as they know I made a mistake. I look on the board and it reads ‘BEKAZ’ I know its wrong but I don’t have the answer to change it.
The teacher, unamused by the students stares at the chalk board then turns and looks straight at me as says “Grace, you will not go outside for recess instead, you will sit in the beanbag and read, if I see you slacking off, you will be tracing out your letters for the spelling test that is this Friday.” After her remark the bell rang and it was time for lunch.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 9:44 AM UTC
Sitting in a room alone. It is clean, brightly lit but peaceful. A cup filled with water sitting upright on the table to my right. A stack of papers rests in front of myself. The sun shining brightly through the window, refracting off of the glass of water creating beautiful dancing lights across the paper. Glancing at the top page reads “Report of Psychological Evaluation” in big black letters. An ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach imitating a thunderstorm is on the rise. The heading continues to cite my name, age, birthdate, dates of the evaluation, Psychologist’s name, and acronyms that are unfamiliar. Grasping the paper it feels smooth, sliding my hand across feeling the ink slightly raised off the page. Following the words as they describe myself at eighteen years of age.
Intelligence is complex. Some are off the charts brilliant, some are average, and others are below the standard of society. People live their entire lives obsessed about their IQ score because humankind accepts this as a universal standard of intelligence. Not everyone’s IQ can be measured accurately as it does not conclude someone’s motivation, creativity, curiosity, innovation and kindness are all key components of character traits that are admired and desired. Unfortunately people, like myself who are dyslexic, have a different method to measure our intellect as we must sit and talk with a psychologist for hours in order for them to determine how our brain works. This system consumed twenty-one hours of my life thus far. Repeating the same test throughout my life with various puzzles, a complete biographical timeline and questionnaires all to be summed up into thirteen pages. Strapped to my ankle like a ball in chain, my thirteen pages are forever in mind.
Looking at my evaluation form my name is written on the top of the page dismissing any doubt. Gazing at the pages on the table with a combination of anxiety and annoyance running through my mind. Reaching out to grasp the pages feeling the significant weight that it holds over me. At first glace the text blurs together. Reading closer the text becomes words but the language is different. The tone of the paper is distant and disconnected. Descriptions of my life begin to form, mapping out every milestone. Since the age of seven, my life has been a roller-coaster from changing school every two-three years, being bullied for being different, to finding salvation within myself leading into proactive accountability to finally rise above all odds. Growing up was not easy. Especially before the No Child Left Behind Act, children with dyslexia were over looked, as many teachers did not know how to teach them. Even now many teachers in public school are not equipped to recognize when students are struggling. Imagining a life where I am not dyslexic, how different it would be.
Turn over the page to expose more information. Written in the text is a comprehensive account of my life. Plainly scripted describing one milestone at a time. Reading a biographical novel, one familiar yet no emotional attachment. As though I am reading my life through the eyes of someone else’s words. The formality of the writing is distant and concise. Leading the viewer to see me as unremarkable.
Reading on, the narrative of my life changes into graphs and floating numbers that are meant to define my intellectual abilities. Staring at the numbers pondering what it means. Acronyms appearing left and right like popcorns. Confusion starts to set in as the suspended numbers start to dance. I was diagnosed at the age of seven in 2000. Nearing the end of first grade, a year I barley remember as I hardly learned anything substantial. My teacher never showed that they cared even after I told them that I was dyslexic. Looking back, I feel that my teacher never understood what I was trying to tell her; instead my teacher brushed me aside not even thinking twice of the ramification that she caused.
Lifting and flipping the next page, but the weight feels heavier than the last. Pressure on my chest begins to build with my anxious mind. Acronyms begin to pop up out of nowhere like popcorn. Like setting sun the words and uses of language slowly start to become unfamiliar as the biographical aspects starts to fade. The terminology shifts to a different standard that is foreign. Lacking the understanding language that is formal academic style.
Remembering when my mother told me that I needed to change schools because the public school I was currently attending refused to help me. She continues to explain that I would not get the proper guidance unless I was behind four grade levels. As any rational person would think it was unacceptable. Over the next five years I attended two different schools still skating by, making little to no progress. Glancing back at the evaluation form it does not show the hardship and suffering that I endured trying to get an education that everyone has a right to. Reading the form, seeing my life plainly written with little to no emotion. Remembering, how I cried everyday, because I did not want to go to school. Daily kids would call me dumb and stupid because they could not understand how someone like myself existed. Ostracized by my peers I never felt so alone yet surrounded by so many people.
Before transferring to another school I never met anyone else with dyslexia. My salvation was around the corner; before I knew it I was attending a school in a different state in the middle of nowhere. Once more, I needed to update my evaluation, six more hours of my life to prove that I needed all the help I could get. This school on my evaluation form should get more credit to my success. My time there is summed up into one paragraph but the effect will last a lifetime. The three years I attended this school was difficult but absolutely necessary.
Imagine yourself at twelve years of age but you only have the capacity of reading at a third grade reading level. I was so far behind it did not seem possible to catch up to where I was supposed to be. Spelling was broken down into phonics in my first year. I was encouraged to read and test my comprehension daily. Math was the only other class that wasn’t reading. Later I was introduced to science and writing. In my last year I took a history class and proceeded to complete high school level classes, as I was technically a freshmen. After attending this school I gained six grade levels within three years, ready to transfer once more as a sophomore entering into officially as high school student.
Once again turning the page, unable to resist the temptation of reading just a little more. Despite the paper feeling light to the touch the information generates the feeling of a lead weight. The popcorn of acronyms begins to intensify as the biographical section comes to an end. Test results are the next section of the evolution. The psychologist also examines my personality in detailed written notes. The movie of “Stranger Than Fiction” comes to mind as a “big brother” feeling psychoanalyzed.
High school was no different as I was still surrounded by my fellow peers all in a similar boat trying to survive. Three years pass once more, sitting in a small room with a different psychologist recounting my life. Explaining my story, completing puzzles hopefully for the last time. Graduation is around the corner, I feel different. Six years ago I was at the bottom of my class. Now, I am at the top of my class, graduating with high honors, straight-A student accepted into college. I’m on top of the world. It’s amazing what can happen in in six years.
Flipping to the next page, the lead weight transitions into a dumbbell. Dancing numbers mimicking the illuminating refraction of the glass of water. The numbers seem random at first glance, as there seems to be no pattern to correlate it. The acronym popcorn begins to explode with every other word with no end insight. Words begin to merge and brake down. The written text transitions into gibberish. I recognize my name in a sea of unrecognizable babble. A pain of needle ****** start to add pressure onto my chest.
The dancing numbers suddenly vibrate as the insanity of the acronym start to multiply. The splattered numbers represent what is inside my mind. A roadmap filled with blockade and detours constantly shifting in my head. Breathing becomes difficult as it feels someone has placed a cinder block on my chest. The acronyms start to plateau nearing the end. The text becomes legible once more.
Jolting up, I close my eyes and rest my hand against my forehead. Looking up at the window at the peaceful beautiful day. My brain starts to hurt and becomes numb. Mentally taking a step back from the stack of paper I push it across the table unable to finish. My brain is about to explode with the new information that I am still processing. My name is attached to this document as its littered throughout the evaluation. My academic life is detailed out for anyone to read at my school. Realizing this document defines me as a person. Ball and chain strapped to my ankle forever defining my intelligence.
I am incapable of escaping this documentation process to only be confirmed as someone with average intellect. The education system only documents ones ability on English and mathematical skills as deems more important in our growing society. The problem is people like myself rely on other forms of intelligence to compensate. Forever in our back pocket our evaluations sit there until it become irrelevant. After pondering this notion the bell rang and it was time to leave.
The evaluation form that I hold today was completed when I was eighteen years old, still ringing true, pointing out my flaws, and exposing my weaknesses to anyone willing to read. After all of this time, I often wonder do these thirteen pages still define my intelligence? Having risen above my challenges and surpassing anyone’s expectations, who holds the key to the ball chained to my ankle? It is debilitating having a physical reminder of my limitations after I have accomplished so much. Struggling constantly, as I continue to fight battles even into adulthood. Graduating from college is the greatest accomplishment thus far. Imagining my next graduation is next year is unbelievable. No one knows where your life will take you but one day my evaluation form will wither away into oblivion as I stride everyday to not let it define me.
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 4:29 PM UTC
You laugh every time I write.
My A's look like O's.
My M's are N's.
My B's are D's.
Word is a blurry mess of letters in every direction,
begging for me to put them into something coherent.
But to me, this is how it is
Slemi
Reda
Pojerct
My phrases are backward like the wiring in my brain.
Reading and writing every day only numbs the headaches.
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 7:21 PM UTC
It is a blur
Words, numbers, characters
I see no context
Nothing
I see them
But I understand nothing
My mind has checked out
As it is all a blur
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 4:17 PM UTC
I stare at words
I remember nothing
Written instructions
Is the bane of my existence?
It puts me back
To solving word problems
In school
A combination of letters
And numbers
Lost in translation
My mind is blank
And hopelessly lost
Unable to compute
These letters
And numbers
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 6:35 PM UTC
One panic attack is an eye opener
Having two mental break downs
Within two days
Is another
It’s crippling
Your whole life
Feels as though it’s crashing down
Questioning your intelligence
Second guessing yourself
Feeling so lost
Unable to understand
What others seem to get
So easily
You are out of control
Of your emotions
Unable to compose
Yourself
That feeling of being nocked down
Once more
As you climbed so high
It’s humbling
And terrifying
Something needs to change within
Not sure if it is my
Pride or ego
But I need help
I need to not be afraid
To ask for help
For I require so much
Academically and emotionally
I wonder how many individuals
Feel this way
How long it takes to get back
On feet to where I feel
Like myself once more
Jan 21, 2019
Jan 21, 2019 at 11:04 PM UTC
All I see are words
Not language
Not sentences
Not letters
All I see are words
It all becomes a blur
Nothing is standing out
They start to blend together
All I see are words
I start to fall asleep
My brain is processing incorrectly
I stop reading because
All I see are words
Jan 9, 2019
Jan 9, 2019 at 9:49 AM UTC
Don’t judge me
I am not like everyone else
I am unique
Don’t judge me
I am not the same as everyone else
I am different
Form you
And everyone else
Don’t Judge me
Don’t treat me the same
I am proud
Of who I am
Why aren’t
You?
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 9:35 AM UTC
To process information
Is as easy as following a map
There is a clear path for information
To travel and development into Knowledge
For most this path is clear and unaffected
For some that is not so
There are roadblocks
Construction work
Even unpaved roads that are not marked
Processing the same information
Can be difficult to navigate
As I feel strained
By my brain must take
Taking the longest route possible
As it is using other parts of my brain
That is not meant to
Process certain information
In order to compensate
For the parts that are not working
In order to development the same
Knowledge
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 9:42 AM UTC
Imagine your knowledge is an
Infinite jigsaw puzzle
For some its is easy to piece together
As everything falls into place
For others the puzzle is forever fragmented
Unable to be completed fully
You are in constant search for the missing pieces
That is meant to connect
To bridge the information together
To complete the image
Every now and then
A missing piece finds a way to fit
Adding new information to the infant puzzle
And one piece closer
To making knowledge whole
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 9:39 AM UTC
English is a challenging language
That is forever evolving
New words are added every year
Some words follow the set rules
But many do not
Words are a puzzle
They difficult to convey
As I try to image them spelled
It is problematic
Some have extra letters
While others are silent
Some have to many vowels
While a few barely have any
With this notion
Spelling is a continuous riddle
Those with learning disabilities
May never fully solve
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 9:31 AM UTC
Reading, writing, spelling, grammar
All components of language
Each part has there own challenges
One may be harder than the other
For some it’s second nature
It can be as natural as breathing
For others it’s difficult
As they are tying to breath
With one lung
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 10:38 AM UTC
I do not like the color red
It’s negative
Pointing out everything
Exposing my faults
Telling me to go back
And correct my paper
Sometimes I do not know how
I’m absent in thought
Trying to understand
But I get lost and distracted
Because it’s covered in red
Like a soldier wounded in battle
As I try to mend the wounds
It slowly recovers
Before I send it back
Hoping that my paper is ready
Once again
To be covered in red
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 10:09 AM UTC
I was forced to repeat Preschool
Because I was behind
I was forced to speak
Because I didn’t know how
I was forced to go to school
Because society said so
I was forced see a psychiatrist
For reasons I didn’t know
I was forced to Change school
Because the former wanted me to fail
I was forced to Learn
But I couldn’t understand
I was forced to change school again
But they couldn’t teach me
I was forced to repeat the fourth grade
Because I had to change schools
I was forced to go to Virginia
Because they could help
I was forced to stay an extra year
Because I wasn’t ready
I was forced to go to Connecticut
Because I had to graduate
I was forced to go to college
Because I got in
I was forced
For 18 years to read and write
I’m used to be forced but now I have a choice
To think and speak the way I chose
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 10:05 AM UTC
I am different
So are you
You can read
Better than I can
But I see
The world differently
Call me dumb
Call me stupid
But I know they are not true
For I am smarter than you
I might flip my letters
From time to time
Heck even my numbers to
But that is not my fault
It just happened
There is no easy way
To explain what I mean
Other then looking it up
But it’s even harder
To explain the challenges
That I have to face every day
Even for the rest of my life
You see me different
You see me strange
And call me names
I see you the same way
I find you odd
I find you mean
I also see you ignorant
For not taking the time
To appreciate me
Once you decide
To open your eyes
And see what I see
Only then will you
Understand me
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 9:46 AM UTC
I was 10 years old
I was an excellent reader
Ahead of my age
I could read for hours a day
Books each night
I was sitting in class that day
Reading aloud
And noting looked different to me
In my mind every word was right where it should be
And mid-sentence I heard it
The shrill voice yelling to read it how it was written
But I was reading it how I saw it in my own eyes
Only my eyes were wrong
Mixed matched and all around wrong
And as smart as I might have been
I was never the right kind of smart
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 11:17 PM UTC