Walking On The Side Of The Road

So first I was a bomb in a briefcase;
a mess of smoke and fear.
I couldn't hide it from me let alone anyone in here.

I saw myself in the mirror
for the first time in a while.
I was rudely interrupted by a guy with a great big smile.

I said, "thanks a lot for nothing, asshole.
Is this some kind of joke?"
He said, "I don't hear anyone laughing over
the sound of you as you choke.
But don't let it go to your head.
There's room enough in here for us both."

So then I was a priest at a pulpit
and the only people in the nave
where the only people that my message would never save.

So Jesus, if you're really coming,
really you should get here soon.
The price of gasoline's been going through the roof.

So should we mourn like we believe in something
or live like someone died?
Do good things happen to terrible people?
Is there even such a thing? I still can't decide.
I open the paper
and let it make up my mind.

I want to be a cause with no martyr.
I want to be a fight I can't win.
Let's give it up to the ghost that haunts me once again.

Because even though it's falling apart, I still want it
and even though it's all I know,
it seems to me, if you never quit writing,
you never have to read what you wrote.
And how is that different from making it up as you go?

And how is that different from walking on the side of the road?

And how is that different from everything that I know?