You can already tell what a pot is if it calls me an adjective that could describe itself.

A word to describe something that’s more hip Or a place to store munchies on a long trip.

I could trim hair out of your face Or I could hold it in place I might be a part of a whole Or a quick brush by a car out of control What am I?

I’m the small, stubborn sentinel that bars the world from slipping in. Silent, simple, easily broken - yet without me, chaos walks right in.

From open doors I step outside, with nothing there but air to ride. The ground below comes rushing near, a daring dance with thrill and fear.