you can wear me on your foot but I'm also fun to ride with the help of gravity take a seat and you will glide

How can you accuse me, Of what it is, that you do best? It makes me boil with anger, Causing bellows from my chest. My toll of weight is held, in goals and fingers nonetheless. Either way you’ll want a spot. My handle held to pour or sweat.

Hammers, wrenches, screws, and more, travel with me from door to door. Though I repair no thing alone, without me, many jobs are postponed.

How do you make a glow worm happy? Cut off its tail it will be. . .

Some blame onions, some blame grief, some find me born from sweet relief. Though causes differ far and wide, tears are the tracks I leave behind.