Not as anonymous

I feel drunk.
Not that I am,
at least, I hope I'm not, but
I feel drunk.
I'm a klutz, traditionally,
but my words have always been my saving grace
slicing through uncertainty
and painting masterpieces of understanding, and now
I feel drunk.
See, when I drink, my words grow dull,
and my verbal work looks like fingerpainting,
muddying any prior understanding and adding to the mess,
and now
I feel drunk.
Because these days,
it seems like every time I open my mouth,
I may be sober as a stone,
but it's whiskey talking.
I don't even drink dark liquor,
but it's whiskey talking.
See, I don't know what I want,
let alone what I need,
And my mouth just keeps running,
Trying to prove it's not drunk at 10 in the morning,
and the sloppy masonry of this defensive wall
indicts its every failure to reassure.
It's not that I need, or want, anyone right now
but it's what I'm supposed to want.
So I slur out a sad excuse for hope
and though I swear to drunk I'm not god
I'm drowning in the inebriation of doubt.
It's not about decisions or predictions or predicaments
It's about me.
I've been weaving verbal tapestries for so long
I don't know how to put the loom down to appreciate
a thread of truth.
So I feel drunk,
And as I double check that the proper punctuation is present
in these beer goggle ramblings,
I know I need 12 steps back to me.