Dead Are the Dreamers

Love is like a lobotomy, for its logic is beyond the realm of common sense.
It's a tad bit like a disease that infects the brain to suit the crotch and entertain the thought that we will not die alone.

I never need another to spend my money or lead me astray, for I do an excellent all upon my lonesome.

For I have known a shared delusion, and that is why I now happily keep to myself.

For my bed is warm and my bottle is full.
As my conscience is clear as the coast.
Smooth is the sailing of uncharted waters best discovered alone.

I enjoy sex; I just never care to endure all the bullshit that entails a relationship's futile, ever-diminishing reward.

My mind is cloudy enough from my life choices let alone adding another to destroy what little does remain.

Sorry to tell you, my darlings, it's just not in the cards for me to pen that happy ending but I'm always game for a moment's release.

The madhouse keeps the true crazies out and dark hearts like myself ever so cozy within.