Sometimes I hear a voice

Not outloud but inside me.

It seems it's only a whisper,

But the content is so loud.

I guess the grass is always greener

When you are not looking at your own.

So I plod along, hoping for the best,

Leaving what has not happened to rest.

Poor me, in the forest of my thoughts.

Allways contemplating what lies ahead.

Yet here in the reality of now, I must stay,

And see the morrow as if it just came into view.