Most of it is kinda dark, so. . . . If you don't like that kind of stuff, don't read.
Still here? Good.
They say the museum worker's act is like some sort of quarry
Her breath would fall in ragged gasps that somehow never varied
Visitors would not take her tour for it meant certain death
It was this rumor that gave birth to such a frightful quest
The plan was much too simple but its purpose not obtuse
To tear down the wall that was the worker's rage gone loose
They called construction crews who agreed it could be done
And thus began the battle that would never go un-won
The worker's house was older than most museum artifacts
Its filthiness one reason for the worker's cataracts
The wrecking ball swung up then down while she could only watch
The villains cheered a ghastly shout, at last the beast was caught!
When the house fell down to be rebuilt with brick and mortar
She hung a sign over her heart and called it out of order
She lost her job and then her life but others felt no grief
In fact they felt her final breath as something like relief
The years flew by and rumors spread: the killers were not cruel!
They should be praised for tearing down with very few a tool
Alas, the few who knew her past the ugly mask she wore
Threw out their own good souls to add a twist to such folklore
Though now it's just a legend, nothing special to behold
Forget not what great horror stories have yet to be told
The worker and her home have their own secret unrevealed
We'll never know since few dared look beyond her beastly shield
(Because I'm blonde. . . .)
She said she didn’t mind
She minded those
Who thought they were true.
So she laughed,
Big and loud and fake,
Just to prove
That she really didn’t care.
At times I want to throw my mask away.
But then what would all of my people say?
They'd laugh then stare then wash me down the drain.
So I won't try to scare away the pain.
There are happier ones but . . . I always feel like an idiot whenever I write them. ;_;