I'm small and blue, or pink, white or purple too. I want you to remember me so please, follow my name's cue. My second name however, is not so benign. Scorpion grass they call me despite my petals so fine.

You can buy me, or make me, but you can never get more of me; You can kill me, but you'll still die while I continue on; What am I?

I am a berry though not the sort you pick in a bowl,I wear a yellow coat that freckles like old scroll. I hang in hands but never learn to clap, and every single one of my small teeth is dead a ghostly map. What am i?

I am made out of berries or cars. People also make me out of jazz. Being stuck in me can be called farce.

I come in four but also in one hundred and eighteen. When you're not in it, you may feel uneasy. Men have to seek shelter from them.