I’m always on the ground, Yet I’m not dirt or stone. I’m thin, I’m often rectangular, But I’m not a mobile phone. You stand on me when working out, Or when you wipe your shoes. I never walk, I never talk, But I’m the one you use. What am I?

I’m not a foot, but part of me features, I sound like a weapon, but I'm stuck overhead. I show up when the season is festive, And under me, a kiss is often found.

I open like a book but for reading, I have keys but no lock I work when you tap, sleep when you shut I travel with you, yet stay on your lap.

Frets I have many, but worries are none. I’ve got a waist and a neck, but no belt or hat. Give a pluck and I can make you a star, Like BB and Carlos, Brittany, and Jack.

A mirror, made of varied hues But only those the makers choose A space designed to trap a muse And once its soul is captured there Imprisoned, hanging in the air Then people pay to come and stare What am I