A tamarind tree provides the shade he needs,
Cooling the spot where he rests.
A tomb for his seat,
Leaves blowing in the wind.
Inspiration at ever turn like the sun as it illuminates the sky,
Still he’s not sure what to write.
Thoughts running through his mind,
Like a stream that runs for miles.
He’s barely known,
Not yet famous,
The words he writes are his own.
Many days he sits silently alone,
Pen in hand,
Book sprawled across his lap,
Waiting for a friend,
Perhaps a stranger to come along.
It brings him great pleasure to share the thoughts he conjures up,
He writes from a place that brings him solace and comfort,
so don’t take from him what you didn’t give.
Copyright © Xavier Frazer 2016
All rights reserved. Including the rights to reproduce this poem, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this poem may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.