I’m not born of clouds, yet I choke the sky. I turn sunlight sick and cities gray. What am I?

It can be a noun, a holder of things. It can be a verb, for gossiping. It can describe some things in the kitchen, Or slang for a girl that’s too hot to mention.

The one to grip the seams, And shy away from beams. Though centered in the diamond light it stands, for all to see. It’s best to keep a count, Be weary when it lashes out. It starts its day in a pen of bulls, preparing to take you out.

I fit in the palm of your hand but I fill the whole room. What am I?

I fly high, but remain tethered to the ground. Kids usually like to play in the sun, but a windy day is the best weather for me. What am I?