Bug
Bug
On my blue-lined writing pad, a tiny incest walk
It appears hesitant and lost before crossing a line
Lost in the vast wilderness. of the unwritten.
I try to blow it off the paper, but somehow glues
Itself and will not budge.
I cannot touch it, tiny as it is I will surely squash it.
Nothing I can do for now leave it to its own device
Go and watch TV.
When returned the insect was gone, a sheet of paper
With nothing written is a lonely place, no story to tell
But leaving behind a nagging question, the beginning
Of depression and the sense of futility.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
