I am a golden mountain, yet I have no rock, Born of the harvest, I am built for the stock. If you lose a tiny needle, you must search through me, But if you light a match, I turn to ashes instantly. What am I?

What contains twenty six letters but only has three syllables?

Some consider me beautiful, others ugly. I'm a permanent reminder of harm but also of survival. My lips are sealed yet still tell stories - sometimes comedic, sometimes horrific, and occasionally both. I can't be truly bought nor borrowed, only earned. Sometimes I'm the most visible when I'm invisible.

This is the last one. I don't have any more patience nor things to write. What am I?

I’m born of a sigh and a long, weary stare, When patience packs up and leaves you there. I’m not quite angry, just thoroughly done Eyebrows raised, but no need to run.