Dyslexic Games

My cut out work, order excised,
the lingua scooted franca by,
as written codes are in a spin,
that first impression, plumped for term,
but first edition, draft, revised.

Imagine, me, reading your words,
when orchard trunks are worn for swim,
an orchid seen, such fruitless leap.
From capital I take the lead,
or is it plumb from column head,
the problem, read, when seeing red?

I before E, save after C,
rule pointless, if after, before.
I take the plunge, recall the sounds,
but syllables beyond my count,
as if a haiku, different sums.

If shape my mouth, they think I’m deaf,
but trial and error only test,
a plunger diving, U bend blocked,
the structure fractured, disjointed,
my reading age reduced to eight.

That’s why I use the gift of gab,
my moving script performed, not scanned,
until they note, page upside down,
pretend my glasses left at home;
a strategy, dyslexic games.

My cut out work, order excised,
the lingua scooted franca by,
as written codes are in a spin,
that first impression, plumped for term,
but first edition, draft, revised.

Photo by Sven Brandsma on Unsplash