A scraped-up knee, a broken heart, or onions may cause me to start.

They can be harbored, but few hold water. You can nurse them, but only by holding them against someone else. You can carry them, but not with your arms. You can bury them, but not in the earth

I speak without a mouth, And hear without ears, But I come alive with your voice. I only speak when spoken to, Or when a sound is made, And I make sure to always have the last word. What am I?

I'm a 'whatchamacallit' that's always in demand, a tiny piece of a grander plan. What am I?

As the sun whispers a gentle glow, a silent partner will follow slow. Through light and dark, I silently creep, always beside you, a promise to keep.