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.