I've been called a jar, but that's not true. I'm simply opened up for you. If that isn't copacetic, pull me shut, you won't regret it.

I dance between two wires, or leap from striking steel. Though I am gone in but a blink, the fire seems far more real.

I am a long, hard thing that leaves an impression, I am usually held with fingers, leaving a stain from my session.

Be sharp as one and your wit is keen. In a block they can be seen.

I’ve been pelted with rocks for billions of years, yet people still write poems about me.