My friends are obsessed with sadness.
Sick with madness.

Writhing and twisting in their own **** and ****.
And they love it.

They prefer rivers cried over symphonies written.
A sick and demented way to live.

Perhaps they are bored.
Maybe they have nothing better to do than wallow.

They take so many ropes so easily untangled
and weave them into intricate afghan patterns
that even granny wouldn't dare try.

To be honest, it's a little embarrassing,
seeing them intentionally engulfed in their own flames.

At the same time though, why should I care?
If they want to be sad, fine. It is their way.

Just don't drag me down when the ship
really starts to sink.