Fear of Writing, Part 2

I asked her about her studies;
She was getting a Ph.D. is English, to teach
I wanted to tell her I was a writer,
But it sounded even ridiculous to me.
I am just a mother, unsuccessful;
What genuine thing could I possibly say?1

I asked him about his future plans;
He said he wanted to change the world,
But would settle for helping just a few.
You have three children, I thought,
With three different mamas in Africa, you cunt;
Are you so powerless not to help them first?2

The fear of writing sneaks up on me again,
And pits itself against the fear of living.
Poetry inherits rules without a manual.
The most difficult music to play is the softest,
Lento… grave.
But my notes are almost silent, they go unnoticed,
Sordino… tacet.
Chaos theory manipulates false crescendos.
Butterflies creating hurricanes with the flapping of incandescent wings?
And to say it in an age when whole populations swiftly die without notice!3

I asked about his life;
He’s a big professor at a brand name school.
I spy on their luncheons while they take turns speaking flamboyantly.
I’m a nobody, acting like a child, only hesitating to rise after falling.
Imaginary friends, rebellion, and wild dreams are my companions.
What do I have to lose?4