Answer:
Three little letters, a paradox to some. The worse that it is, the better it becomes.
A thousand colored folds stretch toward the sky. Atop a tender strand, rising from the land, until killed by maiden's hand. Perhaps a token of love, perhaps to say goodbye.
A dragon's tooth in a mortal's hand, I kill, I maim, I divide the land.
They can be harbored, but few hold water. You can nurse them, but only by holding them against someone else. You can carry them, but not with your arms. You can bury them, but not in the earth.
It holds no blessings in disguise. Its rhymes are aimed at your demise, it's cast only to ruin, Whatever you are doin'.
People take me on walks and I run and have fun. What am I?