by Nic Olson

My parents have been cleaning out our basement full of crap in hopes of selling our house someday and found piles of papers, posters and report cards that have been stockpiled for the past twenty years, for their sentimental value only.  I wrote this poem in Grade 2.

Someone Told Me I am What I Eat

I am what I eat! 
Now isn’t that neat!
But can it be
That corn is me?
Is a potato my heart?
My lungs, tacos?
Are my intestines made of seaweed?
My shins from steak?
Apples cannot make an airsac.
Or any part of me I fear.
Can someone solve this mystery
Of how my food turns into me?

Apparently I’ve been a writer for many years. The first time I read this, I was quite unsure whether or not I wrote it, because it was so good. Shel Silverstein good.

I’ve been writing hits since I was in Ms. Nasty Witch’s class in second grade. Which makes me think, I am the classic English student. I work construction, I live with my parents, I am writing a book, I often share my feelings with myself via blog, I don’t shower very often. All classic signs that I’m a genuine writer. So what is this Engineering thing I’ve been considering? I’m a writer, plain and simple. A crude, boring, sarcastic writer, who actually doesn’t like writing, except for its quality of telling people how little I like certain things.

The two hits of my writing career, one about tacos, potatoes and steak, the other…. yet to come.