Meet The Author *
Welcome, fellow story-seeker.
I'm N.E. Scriver, a teenage poet and author motivated by the vast perspectives and stories people of the world have to share! Whether I'm writing poems throughout the day or crafting intricate worlds from a single idea, my stories touch on connection, loss, and transformation.
On this website, you'll find access to my latest works, such as novels, either standalone or series, and poetry. Stay a while, and maybe something might speak to your heart!
Literature has always been the language of my soul.
Though I've looked into other passions such as painting and culinary arts, I've always been drawn to the world of storytelling.
Growing up in Philadelphia, I found peace in writing. As I've gotten older, it became an outlet for me to express my complex ideas, identity, and observations through numerous lenses. Whether that be fantasy or non-fiction, I strived to let the world see itself from a different angle. I've used that desire to explore themes of identity and transformation through short stories, poetry, and my debut novel Ike and The Elvons.
When I'm not working on stories, I'm either journaling about things I tackle in my day-to-day life, or reading about things that express a specific perspective other than or similar to my own.
My works are deeply personal, and I share them in hopes that it wields something that resonates with everyone on a profound level.
Books *
Want to read more books my N.E. Scriver? Check out all social media accounts linked at the bottom of the site to get updates and other book related content!
Poetry *
Sinking
"Time is ticking, time is ticking,"
the spirit whispers to me.
Their voice, a faulty piano;
Its sharp keys make one bleed.
I struggle to stay afloat
in this timeless sea.
My arms grow tired
from my endless need to breathe.
All I can do is swim;
No boat to hold me up.
Not even a raft
to grant me a hint of luck.
I forage for air,
for at risk I am stuck.
Time grasps my life;
To the seabed, I am rushed.
Endless pain and suffering
is planted on my soul;
My body is no more,
as the seabed lay cold.
I reach out to the surface,
but my chance has been sold.
If only I had listened
to the crow who grew old.
Sugar Cane and Cigarettes
I face toward the endless nothing,
releasing smoke from between my lips.
My lipstick left a mark where the cigarette rests,
and with each puff, I lost a part of myself.
Sweet detachment—I find bliss in loss.
A temporary joy, I desire,
for I can't bare the labor
of processing sugar cane.
I think of how my hands would bruise
from pressing patiently.
I think of how my palms would prune
from soaking in the juice.
When I'm done, I could harvest its greatness;
Nectar by the grace of the gods.
but nevertheless, I puff once more,
as the clouds corrupt my mind.
Self Love
Beautiful imperfections;
They kiss my skin so tenderly.
To some, seen as a gift from gods,
but others, an anomaly.
What defines "normal"
in human beauty, I ask?
Why must we be so similar;
Why must out truth be masked?
True beauty lies within
one's character, that is so.
Appearance isn’t a factor
if the soul is bitter and cold.
Beauty is underlooked.
Beauty is misunderstood.
Beauty is internal.
Be beautiful, I could.