The roses are right beneath me, yet the sharp weeds behind seem to find a way to sweep me under
suddenly, and with hardly any warning.
How can I see the paved road ahead when the spot I’m standing on can barely hold my weight
shaking and trembling I stand on one foot.
They say ”stop looking down and see your direction”, but the deep dark hole underneath has a possessive, obsessive spirit that haunts my present
what a funny word it is, present.
it can never be returned, it can never be thrown away, only accepted either with grace or with bitterness.