I was an icon in the heyday of Microsoft word whenever you needed help. But often people did not like me. Now I am relegated to holding documents and being bent out of shape to clean hard to reach places.

Say hello to my friend informally, his name is Gurt.

No tears can wash this signature away; it deepens not, nor fades with each new day. A map of mending, drawn in tender white, the body's poem, written in its plight. What am I?

Sometimes I hold a morning brew, or I’m the reflection staring back at you. In another sense, I bring dismay, taking your valuables away.

A version of me can wrap around your wrists. Historically, i symbolized authority. What am I?