I'm always there, yet you ignore me. I can summon winds as fast as a car, yet I've never caused destruction. I can run, yet I don't have legs. And if I'm blocked, a really bad headache you could get. Who am I?

Made from a metamorphic rock, old skool teachers still use me to help get their ideas across. I will be covered in dust until a sponge returns me to my matte black, maybe green, finish.

I mostly keep things to myself, but I have my occasional violent outbursts. Yet you tolerate them, a spectacle that is revitalizing for you, you say? I'm doomed to repeat this cycle. Drowning in my own incapacity

I can be made of stone, language, or sound, Built to keep limits or keep you aground. Break me to pass or stay on your side, I’m the thin line where two worlds collide.

I'm cold when I'm full, Hot when I starve. When you want your whisky neat, You'll need what my tummy keeps.