She Walks the Golden Path and I Walk the black Top
She Walks the Golden Path and I Walk the Black Top
So here I am and the worlds got me by the tips.
I don't know what to do anymore.
And she walks the golden path with minimal cracks. The one with
the lighted sky and angels at her side.
And with that same goal something good, great, anything better.
Yet I walk the black top with unleavened pavement. Lit with
florescent tattoo street signs and the quick pulsing lamp post .
So with some respect I admire the flames. The burn marks and
battle scars. My knife the protector and a puff of cigarette my
guidance. And I work just like her, for what? The short hope for a
spark. Although she is a believer and hasn't been torn by what
is not there. I see this and I feel sick of envy. Then I see
this and pity. Pity for the fact she will not walk the black top.
She will not flout in pride nor know the indignant rush.
And now I know not to cry because I can't be her but to cry
because she can't be me.