I’m a place where footing fails, Where every step may shift the trails. The deeper you go, the harder to flee, I cling like a curse to your boots and knees. I can be made of mud, or trouble instead, A tangled situation where progress is dead. Step carefully, or you may find That escaping me takes more than you planned.

I’m a tiny red jewel with a pit tucked inside, but give me a sundae and I’ll sit there with pride.

I am small and white, but I am not salt. I am thrown at weddings, but I am not confetti. You must boil me to make me soft, but if you leave me in water too long, I disappear into mush. What am I?

Forwards, I'm a bulbous root or stem that's underground Backwards, I reply, rebuff, and argue, reasons sound

I am useful until I hit the floor, then I’m everyone’s problem.