Vodka and Bookbags

Why are the words I write more powerful than the voice I have been given? 

My grandmother says God has provided me with ears to listen, and a mouth to speak, but my hands were never assigned a task. 

Perhaps this is why I got in trouble for doodling in class,

I’m sorry but biology isn’t really my cup of tequila, 

But the flask I bring to school will get me through the day faster than you can ask “are you drinking”?

When actually, I’m thinking,

About all the different ways I could use my words. I could laugh and show you my love and I could curse the sky for feeling stupid after I do so

Or I could write them, in silence, with a quiet beat in the back of my mind, effortlessly painting my paper with keystrokes filling up screens and lines like tequila in my cup,

it turns out that I like this inebriated state of awe better

A week ago I was bringing vodka to school the same way you’d bring a book bag, now for three days in a row I’ve forgotten to grab my black camelbak

I’ve replaced the urge to suppress and depress my feelings with the power to metaphorically throw them up when I’m sick and tired and reevaluate my poetic decisions when I’m feeling better

But now “writer’s block” is like a Sunday in a small town and when I can’t get my fix I once again feel like an addict

But perhaps it’s better this way

Because I’d rather rack my brain, cleaning out every old and bitter memory holding me back from greatness, than be drunk in a biology classroom by noon.

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This poem is about: 
Me
My community

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