FicWad

A sharpened sword held in my hand,
A weapon to use,
A weapon to abuse,
I long for my bravery to be recognised,
It would seem that I'm alone,
Bruised, broken and on my own,
I battle on,
With tears in my eyes,
A hand muffling my cries,
The same actions smother lies,
Because I despise,
I despise,
Me.

I glance down at the sword in my hand,
My shaking, nervous hand,
I push it away,
Now's not the time to play,
Panic fills me,
Closed eyes cannot see,
But I pick it up,
I guess I'm stuck.

There is a sword in my hand,
And red dripping down from gaps in my skin,
And I'm smiling.

There is a sword in my hand,
But there's not.

Or is there?