Poems for Dyspraxia Awareness Week

My hope to publish this at the start of Dyspraxia Awareness Week was of course an ambitious one… It has been a busy week with a few dyspraxidents for good measure – before you ask, nothing too serious, just broken glasses and a mishap with the hair straighteners resulting in minor burns…! It shouldn’t come as a surprise at this point, since us dyspraxics certainly aren’t known for our spatial awareness and coordination.

And on that note – I really hope that the following poems can be relatable in some way, whether you have dyspraxic traits yourself, or know someone who does. As always, feel free to let me know your thoughts in the ‘Comments’ section.

Take care,

-Misspraxic

1. bruises

the greenish bluish tones of cerulean

mixed with a dash of ochre

create an image – not the impressionist greens

found in Monet’s lush poppy fields

and not the strong blues flowing down the Seine

but the textures of unruly paint dots, erratically

splattered           spilled   stained

they bleed all over my pages

but my legs and mind do try ever so hard

to keep up with a weary world 

where there’s somehow no security

in the greens of a paintbrush

that cannot guarantee my protection,

for I’m the amateur artist who lacks control

like that old car with the dodgy motor 

that nobody trusts enough-

my skin is left tired and tainted 

by these greenish bluish blotches

and risk cycles round me in circles.

i never progress past yesterday’s chapter

of knocking   falling    staining – 

these marks are less      than flawless ceruleans 

and lesser       than crisp impressionist skies

but these are the honest blues beneath my paper’s edges.

more   than the reductive label of the “Clumsy Girl”,

I beam with a creative license

and my bruised and battered bluish greens

make my skin tough enough to take

the hurtful words and leave my legacy

as I knock and fall and always

return to the page     every    single     time.

2. paper crowns of envy

Have you seen her heels,

the ones pulsed with envy studs that shine

as she strides across the office like it’s 

her palace and she’s real estate royalty? 

Have you seen the way she flaunts

her haute-couture laces in a void of pricey premiums,

internally screaming, “Look at me”?

But she only looks at me with a shiny branded fixation

like a Waitrose security guard she subjects me

to scrutiny from head to toe      for tomorrow’s urgent yesterdays,

my last-season eBay dress     my unshaven legs     and the ghastly gap 

that makes my teeth protrude in an ugly unfashion.

I return her glare, for I see through her masking tape glory

and the paper crown she idolises, especially when 

she dares to demand I leave my personality 

outside the door. “And where’s yours?”

3. Do they see what I see?

I’m disconnected

from the false connections that the masses crave to touch,

quick clicks to links that redirect the engine of the heart

back and forth     away from you. A nano-second

is all it takes to churn up a multitude of possible solutions:

Siri, Alexa, I bet you can’t explain – what does it even mean

to be faced day to day with pixels and promises of meaningful

clicking and Likes and Care emojis that never quite fulfil?

Forever in “public” mode, my pain sinks into a certain state of

behind the scenes coping, with Stories and Tweets that seem to be

removed from any authentic storytelling, like the kind you have to sit around for-

I’m disconnected

so tell me this, do the masses see beyond the cyclical games

that re-tweet themselves into an ever-Beta version?

How ridiculous is it to want to click “Undo”

and warp this reality into my Beta version

with a more balanced voice   a stronger smile or a faster Intel Core Processor?

Search me and then you’ll see my pain

persists like a Trojan virus from a Justin Bieber advert on the side of Facebook,

waiting to pounce and then it sprouts

up all over the place, picking away at the scabs    of my

internal wiring and desperate to be seen.

4. Reset my compass

the cogs of my mind spin both slower    and faster than you could ever tell

when you watch me outside the Co-op, looking lost in the weeping wells of time.

magnetically challenged and pulled towards the edge

to navigate the winding lanes with a semi-functioning GPS

is like navigating my differences when a magnetic force

snaps    like a car in  slow-mo, anticipating the crash but too slow   to stop it.

you propel my gross motor, fine motor movements but still I press

the wrong buttons      and stop    then start       all over 

the pavement’s sharp edges and ons and offs rattle me

as a million sparks swelter underneath my cotton sleeves.

the cars and lorries and buses screech in a foreign way

and yet they cross my path daily, like false friends.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s