I'm ground down daily, yet lift spirits high. A bitter obsession you can't justify. Born from a cherry, roasted till black. Your third cup by noon? Get your life back. I'm extracted under pressure, like your excuses for needing me. What am I?

I'm the cruel corner that devours your pinky toe at Three AM. I'm the jutting traitor you curse while limping through darkness. Mountains wear me proudly; your furniture hides me maliciously. I'm where surfaces end without warning. What am I?

I process commands without complaint or rest, Though you ragequit and blame me when you fail every test. I remember passwords you forgot, again. You call me frozen when patience runs thin, But the problem's the user within

I’m a purple fruit with a dusty hide, eaten fresh, baked, preserved, or dried. Peaches and cherries are in my family tree, I have a heart of stone buried inside of me. I must warn that if you eat too much, to and from the toilet you will surely march.

An act of complaining without offering solution, often tied to a child as it spares the adults feelings. A Karen or Ken may do this as they call a manager, it's simply a petulant act by a childish person. People who complain, but make no effort to make things better do this...