Sometimes I sit down to write
But my hands are firm
Like the hands of a surgeon
And the pen between my fingers
Is like an upside down antenna
Looking at the white paper sheet
Trembling to stain it with words
But the signal from my brain marks flat calm
I force myself to write something, anything
But then I start thinking
That if I think too much
It would not be a real poem
If I’m forcing it too much
It won’t be an honest one
So maybe I shouldn’t write
But I’m writing now
So, what is it?
If this words come from me
thinking too much of something to write
To quench my thirst to write anything
Then this poem also comes
From an overthinking process
And therefore
It is not a poem
