A surface of glistening waves is what I'm made of, sometimes to large to see the far end. Yet an ocean or sea I am not. Naturally I am filled, tho all round the year humans find a way to have fun with me.

as they sprinkle me in the ocean they, cry once more. this is the last they'll see of me, i will be no more. but sometimes out of me comes new life. a little flame that is hope of triumph over that night

Where muddy waters trap the bold, A maze of muck and tales untold. A sticky mess, where hope goes to die, Also a friend of the Family Guy.

With ink as black as night It has a pen But does not write.

When thunder speaks, I lose my nerve, I blink and stutter, as if unsure. Not out, not on, a pulse obscure, I warn you that your electricity may not endure.