There is a bug on my desk.
I can’t even see his legs moving
because they are so stupidly small.
That bug is crawling all over my desk,
but he doesn't even see me.
I am something like a million times bigger
than this guy, but he is so ridiculously oblivious.
There is an infinite number of things that
could be smaller than these legs.
I can’t see those either; I am blind to so much.
He doesn’t know me, but I know him.
I know that this bug is so small that I could just squish him,
and all his little bug guts would be no more.
My thumb could be king.
I could just squish him, and the
world would be all the same.
No one cares about that bug,
but I guess I do.

His life could just been beginning on my desk,
or it could be long and treacherous. His last little-bug steps
were destined to be taken next to my pink clicky-pencil.
The journey he took to get here must’ve been
epic and trying. I know it.
His invisible legs moved his life along.
That little bug got here by amazing
feats and slaying some dragons
and probably getting a few lady little-bugs
along his majestic way.
This guy could have a family or children
or something like that
and a little-bug job and a little-bug coat
and tie. Or maybe he has a special hat
that he wears every day and puts on the
antique coat hanger when he walks in his front
door, the coat hanger he and his little-bug wife
bought at the human-market when
they first got little- bug married.

I want so much to communicate with my little-bug friend
and tell him my hopes and dreams,
so he will tell me his.
This little-bug on my desk and I have a bond,
a bond formed by a shared love of doodling.

His legs are just so darn small. Practically non-existent.