lettering

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I'm tired now. Been running through my own mind far too franticly and too long and lonely.  Holding onto this right gone wrong. Chasing nothing but nothing. Doing no chasing to be chased, nothing. I'm as big as I want to be. I'm repairable, re-evaluatable and redeemable. 
So here I am. Something. 

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They say it's Spring.  Yet the flowers are yet to bloom and the wind howls at the new buds growing as if to head warning it is not yet their time.  Should they burst into something beautiful they may be swept up in a motion of chaos to be unseen by unappreciative eyes covered down.  They say it's Spring.  Coldness and crisp breaths are still, not giving life nor colour nor happy sunshine smiles.  Forced and stuck in a time frame, seasonal and binded to the future.  For what we wait, we think we may know.  For what we wish and hope, we should explore. Buds of green daring the wind and the blindness and the inevitable Autumn.  So buds breathe life, be colourful and smile.  Most of all, explore more than you think you know. 

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So here we are.  

Here being so far from what I ever imagined, so raw and true it stings with startlement. 

I don't want to ask you why

Underneath it goes, the reasons for whatever they be, buried. 

It is here where we go

Separate it shows, no reason needed, varied. 

All we've ever had

Won't be what we get

For now we are...
Here

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Steady as the flowers, we grow.