Bug

On my blue-lined writing pad, a tiny ****** 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.