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.