_The poorest man would say he's rich in heart,_
_The richest man would say he's poor in spirit,_
_The happiest man does cry in secret,_
_The saddest face laughs when no-one is looking,_
_The patient man has no rush to death,_
_The busiest man hasn't got the time to drop and die,_
_The dreamer longs to fly so high,_
_The insomniac buries his head in the dirt of hopes._
So what of me, in the list?
I'm the poorest when it comes to being romantic; but rich
in my words of flirt. The richest of all my written love
poems; but the poorest in having a love to share them with.
I'm the happiest man when I cry myself to sleep in secret; and truly at my saddest when their eyes are no longer looking at me.
I'm patient on my morals, that keep me separate from death;
but at my stress, I rush into the thoughts of just dropping dead.
And I could dream a thousand times of wanting to fly; though
the insomnia of my creativity, is buried in deep thought.
All that you'd expect me to love, I'd surely hate. And so
I'm unknown to the actual truth of many peers. Who would know me by name, but never my real title.
I am _Mr Untitled._
Mar 15, 2022
Mar 15, 2022 at 3:15 PM UTC
_The poorest man would say he's rich in heart,_
_The richest man would say he's poor in spirit,_
_The happiest man does cry in secret,_
_The saddest face laughs when no-one is looking,_
_The patient man has no rush to death,_
_The busiest man hasn't got the time to drop and die,_
_The dreamer longs to fly so high,_
_The insomniac buries his head in the dirt of hopes._
So what of me, in the list?
I'm the poorest when it comes to being romantic; but rich
in my words of flirt. The richest of all my written love
poems; but the poorest in having a love to share them with.
I'm the happiest man when I cry myself to sleep in secret; and truly at my saddest when their eyes are no longer looking at me.
I'm patient on my morals, that keep me separate from death;
but at my stress, I rush into the thoughts of just dropping dead.
And I could dream a thousand times of wanting to fly; though
the insomnia of my creativity, is buried in deep thought.
All that you'd expect me to love, I'd surely hate. And so
I'm unknown to the actual truth of many peers. Who would know me by name, but never my real title.
I am _Mr Untitled._
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