lame thing over finer things

The universe has showered wondrous things
All of them—except his eyes—
Are the lives of starry nights.
They (his eyes) are dull and blunt
Who shall want their world to be drab?

A picture of his face is not worthy of this pen’s ink
Nor this stained paper from my old years.
The universe has given us wondrous things
All of them are marvelous and fine
Except him—my own world I named ‘life’.

a writer who barely writes

I have all what I need—
a neat and clean paper
a pen, a nice pen perhaps
the stars that inspire me
a lot
of skies that make me dream
of extravagant things;
I have all what I need
to write something big
to write everything I love
to write about my life;
Yet I tend to rest
my eyes that are glued
above the skies and stars
Yet I tend to rest
these hands that are less
tired than my mind—
where countless musings
stay and make love;
Am I really a writer?
Perhaps I am.