I’ve been misunderstood most of my life because of dyslexia.
Words don’t line up neatly for me.
They move. They shift. They blur.
But poetry is where they settle.
This piece isn’t about weakness.
It’s about learning to write inside the storm —
And owning it.
Dyslexic / Dyslexia
They said I was different
And that I’d never learn.
I see words and letters
Like alphabetical soup.
My words trip before they walk,
And letters spin like wheels on the page.
People see the stumble,
Not the storm behind my poetry.
I read the world sideways —
In rhythm, in pictures, in breath.
They call it a disorder,
But I call it translation:
Turning feeling into flame.
It’s lonely here,
But I still write
And still spell with my scars.
This isn’t a flaw;
It’s how I burn meaning into my pain,
Into MY dyslexia,
In the fucking dark.
This is my burden.
This is my crown. 👑
Thank you for reading
Your DislexicPoet 🖤