Почему грамматическая основа: "вес не позволяет закипеть" в предложении: "Раскалённые горные породы подогревают воду, находящуюся глубоко под землёй, но вес вышележащей воды не позволяет горячей воде закипеть, пока она не нагреется ещё больше" неверна в своей части, а именно в "но вес вышележащей воды не позволяет горячей воде закипеть"?

1) Жила была большая  семья из цифр. Родители  ходили  на работу, а дети не хотели оставаться дома . И тогда решили они работать вместе своей большой дружной семьёй : мама или папа впереди, а после запятой их дружные  детки. Назвались они десятичными дробями и с тех пор прыгают по учебникам и тетрадкам для  подсчета.
2) Жили были числа. Жили они в разных семьях: рационал, иррациональных, комплексных и других. но захотелось им как то выделиться и так появились десятичные дроби. людям они приносят удобство в разных подсчетах.

- At what age did you write your first poem? - In the kindergarten. At what age, I do not know. I remember five years to invent some couplets, for example, about a boy who liked me. The six opened a note-book, which recorded his poems, she still kept at home. Those verses, of course, answered my age. Luda Baba bought me a pussy. Dubbed we Aliska pussy. Then it turned out that it was a cat. Cat named Pusya guests he lathered. Vot since I was six described the actual incident that occurred in my family. Sometimes described was nothing special, and then I just wrote something, some kind of rhymed foolishness. Just because it wanted to write. Then, already in elementary school, in the literature we are constantly asked to write poems on various topics. Someone helped parents. I consulted myself, and usually the teacher was happy with my work. And with the verses of our city, I think I even participated in some contest. - How close are your your creativity, poetic existence? - My mother always supported me. He believes that I have the ability, convinced to participate in competitions. She had grown accustomed to, that I can suddenly jump out of bed in the middle of the night and run away to write poetry, if I suddenly come to mind some lines. Probably, from the outside it may look a little strange ... And one day I called her in Togliatti and asked to write down a steep head quatrain, because I did not have such an opportunity. No one else from the family with my poems are not familiar. Father knows that I write, but it is unlikely that a read. One of the grandmothers once asked to read my poems, but they were too personal, and I refused. Friends read my poems and good about them revoked. Although one of my friends is very angry because of what my poems too sad, and constantly requires write something cheerful. My favorite school teacher also said something similar. To explain to her why I always write about sad things, I wrote this poem: I do not know how to write fun, My pen is filled with tears. You do not need me to look for lines Those words that heal from grief. They are beautiful, but not for me, My soul is unfamiliar with peace. Always she was confused, I never find the desired peace. Perhaps, it is often injured For sixteen years of my short. Perhaps this is all my heart Leaving traces of the humble dreams. In my lines all the tears and all the pain, Which were saved from birth. I know here and it played a role, What many times my dreams shattered. In my lines melted hopes You can find a lot, They love the pain will appear without clothes. I do not know how to have fun to write ... This, of course, a problem for my mother. My poems she mostly likes, but it probably can be difficult to read. Every mother wants to know that her child happy, not to read about how he was hurt. I am a mother once gave to listen to an excerpt from the book Anna Rivelote: "It also happens. Give birth to a child, and he is a poet. You did breastfeed, wearing on their hands in the toilet when he had a fever, you spend all the money on him and all his spare time. You dream to be in his school with a gold medal, the work is interesting, a nice car, fun wedding, three kids and a dog. And he grows a poet, and all his bad. And he drinks bitter and writes sad verses, and you have sixty, and you've given him everything that you had, and more you have nothing. And he wrote and wrote, and you read and weep. " Mom said it was very important. - What inspires you? - Probably, it sounds corny, but, first of all, I am inspired by life. The emotions that I feel. Love. Close people. Creativity favorite poets, writers, musicians. For example, reading a novel Marika Mi "inventors", I wrote a poem on behalf of the protagonist. I recently attended a concert Chancellor Guy. It was so incredible that I soon wrote a poem called "Chancellor Guy" about how much I admire his work.