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 Iβm standing on can barely hold my weight shaking and trembling I stand on one foot. They say βstop looking down and see your directionβ, 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.