I failed at life

I hate smoking— 29ish in wishful living, I fiend enmity, grab a protagonist as some overwear — my nerves in the brain working overtime.

I am made to feel ashamed and helped by society.

My mother reminds me with love I have to wake to meaning, targetly to society — or a deteriorated state presently will go towards a non-admitted sigil incapable of feeding hunger and feeling anything more.

NOBODY CAN LIVE ALONE.