I do not breathe, but I run and jump.
I do not eat, but I swim and stretch.
I do not drink, but I sleep and stand.
I do not think, but I grow and play.
I do not see, but you see me every day.
What am I?
I am the reason you run, because I allow it. I am the reason you scream. I am the cause of all your pain. I am a cage from which you will never be free.
I am a fruit. If you had two of me, I would sound just the same. If you rearrange my letters, it could be a crime. Add me to a montage and I can become a different fruit. Remove my head and you can still listen; take away the end and I can still be eaten. Without a piece of the center, I am still a word; take away all
of the middle and I am just an acronym. What am I?