I started writing this poem a few days ago, then I stopped (because of a mood shift), but came back and finished it today. It is titled 'The Miserable Humorist'. I will not disclose the identity of the Miserable Humorist at the moment. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy the poem:
He is, was, and will be
Since birth and until he
dies,
Neither the worst of the
fools,
Nor the best of the wise,
He is the Miserable
Humorist.
With a smile on his lips,
And a tear in his eyes,
He finally understands,
And out his soul cries,
I am the Miserable Humorist.
A life full of truths,
A truth full of lies;
His life he did love,
His life he did despise.
You are the Miserable
Humorist.
The world suffers in vain,
He won’t let that idea go;
He only lives to lament,
And to drown in sorrow.
From the most ancient of futures,
To the very far-fetched past,
He only lives for sweet sorrow,
And on that he will fast.
He is the Miserable
Humorist.
God bless.
(:
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