Jeremy Scrivener




  Me? I am forgotten.
An intelligent, talented man
  who made an idiot’s mistake that
       landed him straight to rock bottom.
Who am I? I am an outcast.
Destined to make a difference,
   yet here within this broken system
      where society says I must be trapped.
What is my name? It is sorrow.
Resentment filled regret lost
   inside a nightmare of broken hope
      with a soul longing for a better tomorrow.
I am not defined by my mistakes.
I’m not alone.
I am Me.

Between the Pines

O’ render me between the pine,
The Autumn red and green.
Where deep within thee lies,
An hope within the breeze.

A palace vast and innocent,
I dare not speak its name.
Forever stayed behind my lips,
And live within my dreams.

I hear thee well, you call me home,
So much I have to share.
Every step I take will show,
These memories laid bare.

Forget me not O’ heart of mine,
For should thine passion burn.
Alas be found between the pines,
One day I shall return.

I Hate Fishing

I wasn’t always so opposed to the idea of the sport, but where I grew up as a kid, Kingston Oklahoma, a man was measured by the size of his catch. Now, because fishing is such an important part of my hometown, I’ve been fishing since I could hold a two foot Mickey Mouse pole. I’m sad to say: To this day I’ve never actually caught a fish.

The pride of the “Grown Folk”, growing up on Lake Texoma, was the time of the young kids life where the Men of the family finally got to take the boys on their 1st, and subsequent, fishing trips. I remember being excited the 1st time I stepped foot on a boat with my Mickey Mouse pole, my two uncles, and my dad. We spent hours on the water, and it didn’t take long for my young mind to wonder in boredom. The end result was us left empty handed, and me with a very bad 1st fishing trip memory.

This would be my constant fishing experience. Rarely, would others who went on the trip with me actually catch any fish, and I was never so lucky. My uncles joked that my voice annoyed the fish, and honestly the fish were just as annoying to me. After some time my uncles would stop asking me to go, and I wasn’t the least bit betrayed by this abandonment.

However, one year when the lake’s Gar population was on the rise, the men were asked by the county to basically exterminate the predator fish to smaller numbers, and as men, they were more than willing, and my uncle Chris knew the best place to find them.

Uncle Chris was like a fish whisperer where I came from, and in Kingston that meant he was a Man’s man. I had the unlucky benefit of being his nephew, and his failed attempt at a progeny. So guess who he asked to accompany him on his trip?

It was around 5 when we left the house, and I remember the cold air, and the long drive to a part of the lake that I had never been before. The smell of fish on the lake was pungent as we pulled up to a small Styrofoam, and wood dock. I went to grab a pole from the bed of his truck when he handed me a single bolt action 22 rifle, and I couldn’t have been more confused. He explained how he would spear a gar toss it on the dock, and I was to shoot it immediately. A lot of red alarms went off in my head, but this was my chance to clear my name, a with my uncle Chris on board, I would be a man!

So, in case you don’t know what a gar is, its basically a fresh water alligator fish with a shark fin. Sound scary enough? That’s because it is! And here is my Uncle in a wet suit, bare foot, with a spear, and a belt with a knife on it, walking into the lake where he KNEW these monsters lived. It didn’t take long before he got their attention. I stood on the dock, and I watched as what I thought was a school of fish, swim at my uncle. That is until this humongous shadow grew a humongous fin, and by the time I warned him, he was drug under water. About 15 seconds later he reappeared further out in the water, just long enough to yell out one word before going back under: HELP!

I stood there shaking in fear with this useless 22 rifle in my hand completely sure of one thing: My uncle was dead. As I ran through the next plans of action in my head about how to get back home, I hear my uncles voice yell out like a ghost on the lake coming to haunt me for my uselessness. Suddenly I realize its not a ghost, and I follow his voice to these cliffs nearby.

Elated that my uncle was still alive I climbed down like a mountain goat, and when I reached the bottom I could not believe what I saw. My uncle stood on the shore wit his wet suit ripped down to his feet, with blood running down his legs, and a frantic look in his eyes as he pointed beside him and yelled out: SHOOT IT! Next to him, flopping violently on the shore was a monster if I have ever seen one! Bigger than me with teeth that could rip me to shreds, I stood in fear! That when my uncle took the gun from me, and shot it I’m the eyes. He would go on to joke about it, and about me for years!

As I said before: I HATE FISHING!