It’s quite hard to be a dyslexic poet,
One that only just might know it,
I work so hard,
And it takes so long,
Just to write another tuneless song.

Wish I could write like Sassoon and Owen,
But it’s so cold and the wind is blowing,
If only I could twist every word with skill,
To bend them to my every will.

But every time I write it’s hard to see,
All the mistakes that come from me,
So many times I have to go back,
To make sure I’m on the right track.

And don’t get me started about spelling and rhythm,
Which by the way has no rhyme,
Now it’s all messed up and out of time.

It takes so long to write one of these,
That it’s getting late and I’m starting to freeze,
I haven’t eaten in days,
I think I’m getting anorexia,
And that’s the trouble being a peot with dyslexia.

17 Jan 11