So I Sit,

Cross Leg-ged,
On the uncomfortable
Jagged tipped blades of
Half dried out brownish green grass,
With my back against the sun.

And I cast,
A long shadow
Of my dull limp body
On the misfits of insect life.
Little black bugs crawling
Through the sudden darkness,
Spread across the harsh jungle
In which they live,
Trying to survive another day.

So I watch,
As one of the braver outcasts
Crawls across
The page of my blue spiral notebook,
Not really knowing what to make of it.

And I think,
How easy it would simply be
To mess up their small trivial life,
With one sudden movement.
I could wipe out
Their daily routine existence
And crush every last one.

But I don't,
And have mercy on them all,
because their complicated lives
Are not much different
Then my own.

So I gather,
All of my belongings up
And I continue,
Traveling from one
Small and trivial life,
To another of equal value.