Fuck man, I have used and abused every drug known to man except crack since I was 17, a bit older than you.
And guess what? I'm the only one of my peers still alive. Yep, all dead. ODs, car crashes, drug-induced psychosis suicide, liver failure, heart attacks from speed and coke, brain aneurisms. Actually, there is one, but she is in permanent psychiatric lockup. So I guess I can't blame peer pressure any more.

I still drink, do opiates and benzos, a bit of ice now and then. I'm 61 and making 65 would surprise me and everyone else. I know why I do it, but this poem doesn't tell me why you do. It shits me to tears. You are messing with your brain in its formative years. Fucking idiot deadshit. Tell us why and it better be good.

You need your brain to be the poet I think you can be, so why?
The usuals? Pain, alienation, social pressure? You have to re-write this poem to make the reasons very fucking convincing and then you are going to tell us how much you value the greatest thing you have, your brain, and tell us how you are going to stop.

Yes, I can can preach and shout and demand because I survived with some brain cells intact, with constant, unremitting physical and psychic pain, with the knowledge so devastating I could have been so much better. So much better. Imagine feeling that every day left of your life?

So write this poem again. Write it real.

but we can talk about that when I see the new poem.