Ice cream cone on my head, less logical then a giraffe. I'm basically a horse with pretty privilege

Black, my blood, In scrivenings old, Darkness in murder, In paradise bold, In some ancient scripture, Ballast to the soul, Minimal purchase, If measured in gold

Where am I? A crumpled piece of paper, Off the board and in the hoop. Phones a ringing, printers singing and a coworker named Schrute.

I’m small but sharp, I end things clean. I start with a sound You hear when I’m seen. I cut without blood, Quick; no slip. What am I?

I can be thin, or thick, and be in the game. Fear makes me crawl, and you might just jump out. I come in many hues, here to protect you, pamper me, and I'll glow for you, no doubt!