My mini sword

My sword tastes as hard as rocks, as bitter as tears.
My sword feels as smooth as a table, as sharp as a knife cutting through its prey.
My sword reminds me of the bright sunny day I bought it in Japan.
My sword inside looks like a someone lying dead with the sword next to it on a dark and stormy night.
My sword smells like cold metal sending a shiver down my spine.
My sword begs to me “use me to break something hard instead of just staying here on my little stand rotting away night and day.