Who would you rather be?

The poet, who paints on the canvas of thought,
And hums a forgotten tune as rhymes are wrought?
Beautiful is how the world seems to him,
But not him if surrealism is what you seek not.


The actor, who dons a new skin everyday,
and emotes without effort, as myriad layers peel away?
But to none does he reveal what hides in his heart,
So not him if for you, secrets are not part of the play.


The saint, who chooses that which is pure and austere,
With his heart all empty and mind unnaturally clear?
His desires ended even before the time could begin,
Never him if you think you could care for someone's tear.

The clown, and his dance, and his jokes, and his smile,
Who makes your day, with his simple style?
He is in everyone, and yet, none want this fate,
So why not him, if you haven't made anyone laugh in a while?