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.

A hot drink served in a cup. Golfers need me to hold the ball up.

To follow this task, You might fill from a cask, To quench your need, Fill me with mead. Neither a cup, mug, or bottle Use me too much you may waddle. What am I?