On Swift Wings


Sitting alone

By the window sill

It’s late into the night

Wind is sleeping

People aren’t stirring

But her eyes are open wide

Yawning loudly

She checks her watch

First customer of the night

Adjust her straps

Folds her hands

And breathes in deeply

Hoping she’ll get another chance

To say goodbye

Walking down steps

Darting glances in each room

Full of sex

But short on love

She waits

By the front door

Hoping her death

Rides on swift wings


Only My Guilt Knows


I descend a staircase

littered with shreds of newspaper

and leftover condoms

the lights are dim

and the air, stale

but the memories are bright

and here, rise high

my leavened bread

eaten everyday by anguish

shoved in my face, they know I need

the drain in the center

is rusted and clogged

with people I left long ago

they tried to buy my love

a piece of my fire

so I cheated them time

now look what they made me do

surrounded by my muses

pale white skin and shrouded face

silk curtains her backdrop

virgin ignorance is a see through robe

I draw from her eyes

lonely telescopes into the vast blackness

of my pirate heart

I weep from her part

a lonely ballerina on a stage

and silence her only spectator

I take what I need and leave

as she breathes alive and well in me

made and broken at what she sees

I don’t love her but can’t let go

so I lock it inside

for only my guilt to know



Playing To The Beat Of The Winds


silent rolling hills

grasses still

as the trees standing above them

watchful soldiers

on the eve of battle

there’s a flower garden too


and purple petals particularly pushy

each inching higher than the other

for light

red brick preventing

further advance

Stonewall Jackson

come again

there’s a pretty little girl

dancing in the middle of it all

serenity mixed

with delicious vulgarity

as played with herself to the beat of the winds

enveloped me

fully clothed

yet confidently nude

in expression

and in awe of wonder

there’s no one to tell her

how to dress

or how to live

so she danced

she danced

and everyone that came near her

became white as the milk

that dripped

from her bosoms



The Menace Inside Makes Me Young Again


Shadows convene

at the edge of every alley

one foot planted in reality

the other against the wall

smoking cigarettes by the carton

breathing in the toxic waste

of a choking humanity

and out come black fumes

so sensual in wafting

from nostril to nostril

even the prostitute looks up from her slumber

and pleasures herself once more

together in twilight

they burn the ashes of dead dreams

and light the fire of forget

roll in the cunning of a serpent

and blow it as sweetly as a promiscuous witch

sweeter than the honey

that drips from hardened nipples

hanging lower than the blade

of guillotines sent to punish the adulterer

strip me bare and beat me blind

I scream I’m yours, I’m yours

as the skin peels back, dancing

to half time

throwing fuel around my feet

the soul gasping for air

raises itself higher on the cross

while the aborted fetus bleats

I love the menace inside

every day I age

she makes me young again



Mysteries Among The Melodies Of Silence


Sudden warmth arises

a soul

drunk on restful slumber

to a sea of green drapery

teasing the eyes away

from the naked beauty underneath

fawns bouncing among the meadows

when touched by misty morning air

rays of sun crown a head

as the lunar glare dusts feet

when sliding underneath the heavenly arc

birds rest on tan shoulders

like trees, strong but gentle

I come upon her

and discover a flower

pretty and pink

this is mine, my shining time

I watered it each day

until a seed was born

and carried our name

throughout history


A Black Man’s Views On (REAL) Black Problems

Image: A man walks past a burning police vehicle The forecast calls for rain

mixed with a little bit of snow

The winds come and go

and they hum a slow beat

along the trees and buildings they meet

The puddles, birthed by the rain

overflowing and blanketing the lane

in a mirror like sheet

The blood of this city

the sins of this city

are the carried by the rain

The cries of the child

and their footsteps measured in miles

are washed away by the rain

I write it down

I write it all down

as the rain pour

drowns out the abused mother’s crying sounds

Pull up on my block and see what I’m made from

See the bullets and lifeless eyes on the ground

and find a witness? There are none

No hope for the teenage girl

trying to be pretty but classy

cause the others are jealous

and insults they hurl

Night and day, she’s hounded by boys

just looking for another jerk off session

winding their arms up like little toys

Loud mouth politicians in ugly pant suits

try to tell you about the struggle

but they never tell you what the struggle is

It’s more than drugs, it’s more than crime

it’s why we need drugs and crime in the first place

Broken families

from dad’s who want to play both sides

and mindless school principals

who are a waste of everyone’s time

Putting a white man in charge

doesn’t take away

from the fact that we still act as if

we’re slaves

Gold chains and ebonics

a tiny reminder of the old days

when a black family could be rotted

with a bid, a token

and that vicious cycle

it has yet to be broken

The city stares at me

they say

The city sits watching me

at play

What I knew

and they could never see

was already drowning thee

and what they know

grasping which, I was slow

and I sunk under the currents heavy flow


(Ever notice how there’s almost no national media coverage regarding black on black crime, particularly involving inner city incidents? Did you even know that four people were arrested after TWO non-fatal shootings in Baltimore, today alone? Bet the Today Show didn’t talk about it. Well, I did, and since I tire of people who have no concept of the struggle trying to tell you how it is, I decided to tell you how it is. Not above the battlefield, but ON it.)


Dancing Dirty To Morning Light


Standing in the window

she gazes at the morning light

reflecting off skyscrapers

hair in a bun, top undone

she awaits her newest client

unsuspecting her voracious loving

he’ll take too many bites

unbeknownst to her cunning

she lies on the floor in front of a mirror

admiring two outrageous peaks

peaking out from cut out latex pants

smiling at her sexiness

she twists and turns her body

staring seductively at the ceiling

as if to make it come over her

imagining him undoing

bronze buttons

imaging him breathing down her neck

as he pushes deeper inside

her youthful appearance

was betrayed by a slutty soul

knowing things

only harlequins know

Kissing the mirror

the reflection of herself

she’d leave a trace of her beauty

and another notch on his belt


Black Dahlia Prose: Special Words For My One Hundredth Post



Oh man, oh man, oh man. One hundred posts? Really? You kidding me? Really?

Yes, really. It’s real.

I’ve been through everything on this blog, from love and tempting teasers to Aspergers and raw pain, grief, and desire for a “normal” life, to my porn addiction and what I’m doing to overcome it (I’m going on nearly a WEEK without it, by the way). I haven’t always had a lot of followers, and I’m SO THANKFUL to the 387 (and counting). You are amazing. Your comments are encouraging, and your peace and kindness encourage me to go on.

But I must confess.

I don’t do it for likes or comments. I do it because people need to here my voice. People need to hear and see that not everyone on the autism spectrum is rude, emotionless, and unable to do anything in society. People need to see that Aspergians…we have a voice. We are NOT all in our own heads. We can see outside ourselves, outside our anxieties, and make an impact. I think I’ve chipped away at that goal, and with one more post, I’ll continue to. My role doesn’t stop, and my job is for life. I will do this until he calls me home, and I’m thankful to you for listening.

YOU make Creative Writing of A Baltimorean possible. YOU make my job easier. And YOU make it possible that others like me can see who they really are. THANK YOU.

For my post tonight, I’m doing something a little special. On Twitter, I’ve been participating in Kendra Lynn’s #BlackDahliaProse prompts , and I’ve written some great poetry in response. I’m going to share them here, and you can follow me on Twitter @marylandpoet and follow her as well, @DVcrusader

(The prompt will be in bold)

12/9/16 Prompt

Red, brown, and yellow

Feelings anything but mellow

Wind whistling pleas

from fluttering copper leaves

Language of trees

12/6/16 Prompt

Vibrant heart

love branching out

petals of a rose

but you gave in to toil

now you lie among dormant flowers

in frosty soil

12/2/16 Prompt

Love comes

& love is gone

Wait your turn

be taken along

ride up & down the story of life

happy & mourning

in the dusk

of a grey goose morning #BlackDahliaProse

11/29/16 Prompt

Blood & knives

Tablets of stone taught tribes

Thrones of white marble

enemy ships pillaging harbors

The legend of humanity #BlackDahliaProse

Prompt 11/25/16

A broken bed

and your ripped dress

Moaning and sweet ecstasy

Sweaty palms

and a sticky mess

The morning after #BlackDahliaProse

Prompt 11/22/16

She was pressed

until her core became liquid

and a heart of daisies

became grey ashes

She gave in

Her chemical meltdown #BlackDahliaProse

She threw up poison

and bled carcinogens

She ran to her lover

choking on curses

My chemical romance

Her chemical meltdown #BlackDahliaProse


To Heaven, God, Nobody or Anyone Listening…


This last year has been one of the worst in my life. I know I talk about how well I know myself, and you all comment so often about how confident and honest I am, but that’s because I really haven’t talked about what I’ve been going through. The things I’m addicted to, the things I let my mind convince me to be true, and the things I’ve done in the past that I’ve since let go but still affect me. My trip to California was very relieving, but it also made me focus: I’ve completely fallen off the map this year, and I haven’t tried to fix it.

The reality is, I’ve bounced from condescending towards myself, to angry, to deeply depressed. I’ve gained crazy weight because eating is one of the ways I let go and forget about the pain in my head, and then I’m depressed because I look horrible and none of my clothes fit, and then I’m angry because I know I should have more self control, and then I’m condescending through pretending that it really doesn’t matter because I’m not really that big. I feel weaker, but in eating I don’t think about the anxiety, the worries, and the failure, so I feel stronger in some backwards, shitty way. I know its unhealthy to do what I do: eat, and eat, and eat, but I find myself lost in it all just to escape for a few moments.

That’s been a huge part of my struggles this year, but it hasn’t been the only thing.

I’m also addicted to porn. I know, it’s the nastiest, grossest, vilest, and destructive thing a teen boy could be addicted to, but I cant stop it. I get the urge, and I watch. I feel the need, and I watch. I don’t even like porn. I find it disrespectful to women. I think it’s destroying my life. I know I’ll never have a pure relationship with a woman (or anyone in general)because of it. I don’t want this to go on, but I can’t make myself give it up. It’s filthy, and I feel I’m wronging every last woman I’ve ever come across or talked with because of it. I know it will jade my perception of women; making me expect things from them that porn falsely portrays. Making me expect women to be a certain way around me when I know REAL women don’t have to show their tits to know they’re loved, or to know they’re beautiful. I wish I could apologize to each and every one I’ve ever watched, because I’ve seen something I have no right, no claim, to have seen. I’m not married to them, or even friends with them, so why am I enabled to see what I’m too young to even begin to understand. It’s perverted, it’s cheap, and I want to take back every last moment porn has taken from me. I have a dirty mind, and I want to cleanse it. I DON’T CARE if everyone else thinks pornography is okay. I know it’s wrong, and I want to turn the table. Wipe the slate. Turn a new leaf. Whichever fucking saying that fits this setting, I want to have it.

I guess I owe all my female followers an apology, because pornography is sexist. It objectifies women in the WORSE way, and I never want to make your sex out to be something that it’s not. I know I’m not deserving, but I need a chance at redemption.

I’m not a good person. I’m not even a person. I’m a worthless, useless, addict pervert that deserves nothing more than a noose around my neck. I don’t deserve your time, or your attention, or your care.




I was raised to be faithful, to trust in God and follow his ways. Porn may have me now, but it doesn’t own me. I have to rise up. I have to take a stand against this crummy, damned part of me that is trying to kill me. I don’t know when my time is up, and I’m trying to get this right before he calls me home. I want to make this right. I want to love PURELY. WHOLLY. TRUTHFULLY.

I can’t go on like this much longer.

I’m writing to you

from the dark

because I’m too afraid

to speak to you in the light

I’m gonna speak

a little informally

because I lost all formality

casting aside bitter life for sweet depression

I’ve spent the last year

trapped in a never ending twilight

and I’ve gotten so comfortable

I gave up the fight


I didn’t want to stop trying

but trying to be something I wasn’t

I got fed up with all the lying

How can I ever have her

perfect and true

when I’m not even a believer

in the one who sent you

I’ve grown fat

figuratively and literally

wasting time in the darkness

I’ve done much wrong, and shamefully

I dug deeper into despair

Bit harder into death’s apple

Sadness was my lair

Aspergers my grapple

my excuse not to push on

as much as it hurts

not to give everything I have

even if friendships never work

I lost the sight

for love, for life

Now I have to get it back

for love, for life

I’ve failed

so many times

and yet here he is

giving me another rhyme

The road to recovery

is long and hard

but I’m determined

to run this ball to the final yard

Returning the enemy’s kicks back

Tyreek Hill

Breaking my head over this neurotypical world

Jack and Jill

I don’t have

what everyone else has

but I’ve got a choice

to live this life, or to pass

I have no friends

and few I can trust

but that doesn’t mean I can’t try

persevere I must

God help me

fight through this

because without you

I’m useless

The road to recovery

will take time

but to get back this life

given by the divine is worth any time

I need my followers, my readers

to be there

Little words can inspire a leader

Please be there

So as you read

these words

know that a life is being changed

The offensive is now; it’s my turn

An Aspergian’s Anger At His Own Anger


Sometimes, I get very fed up with myself. If I’m not feeling guilty and depressed because of my weaknesses, I’m feeling angry about them. There’s no happy medium for me regarding my aspergian tendencies, how they cause me to feel, and what follows suit. I feel angry a lot of times, and I fight with myself mentally all the time.

“That girl said hi to you and you didn’t even respond. Are you crazy?”

“Dude, that chick is hot man. Why didn’t you go talk to her.”

“Bruh, she saw you tense up. No girl is gonna want a shy guy.”

“Dev. You’re telling me you can’t shake someone’s hand?”

“You’re stuttering. You’re fidgeting. God damn it she’s moved on.”

There are many more examples, but these are just a few of the things that run through my mind when I’m out there (and failing) trying to be a normal person. I sometimes wonder why I try at all. I’m a horrid actor, yet I’m afraid that if I just said I’m on the spectrum, people would shy away from me more than what they already do. It’s a saddening proposition, and it only makes the pain worse.

WRITING TO THE RESCUE…eh, maybe not…

This is a really bad song (don’t know why it came out this way), but I actually felt satisfied after writing it. I’m thinking “Damn it, Devereaux. You wrote this stupid ass song that nobody is going to understand, and yet you feel empowered by it. What am I do with this?”

Truthfully, I don’t know. I’ve never written a song before, and there’s no music to this (I’m a poet, not a musician), but I hope you get something from it and maybe you can see where I’m coming from. That’s why I write: to open the kinds, ears, and hearts of those not on the spectrum to those that are. 

You had your chance

and you blew it

You had your chance

and you knew it

Wake up feeling down

Down a couple pills

And now excuse me, if you will

but I can’t be with you now

Baby, I know your name

but I don’t know what you like

And baby, I know your name

but you’re not in my sight

You try to break me open

and I tighten up more

You could beat me, beat me like a filthy convict

and I’d still be numb, even with the open sores

You could love me, love me like Venus

and I still couldn’t hold you, my life

just can’t see your love, your reasons,

your thinking just isn’t my type

You had your chance

blew it harder than a porn star

You had your chance

knew it like Marcel Petiot behind bars

I’m writing to you

From the East Coast to Big Ben

All along I knew,

but I held on like a guilty pleasure, a sin

that could never be pardoned

No blood could reverse

this burden, this marking

that eats away like a curse

I wish I could go back

to the day that we crossed paths

Reverse this time, damn

me for ever falling for your ass

That body, I’d never seen before

and a smile

that I’d get down my knees for

This story didn’t have an end

Just us living on

But now I know that it wasn’t to be

there was an end to this song

I wish things ended differently

that we’d find us

But it ended like it started, quickly

falling, kneeling in the dust

I had your chance

and I blew it

You had your chance

and you knew it


(IF you have any suggestions on what kind of music would go with this, or lyrical suggestions, please leave them in the comment section below)