The Mist - Pump

My days have no sun
This picture tortures me
My nights have no relief
My blood has no taste

I corrupted my veins on insecticide
Anchored my sights, my mind, my breath

Pump!
Pump!

Sweat, fear embraces me
“Be afraid, my friend!” the TV says
My damnation

Am I in the heaven or in the devil’s room?
I’m leaving the hell of angels now

The walls of confidence
Falling down with my faith
A machine made me a loser
My fingers make me a loser

There is no table ready for my lunch
There is no roof

I simply can’t see what’s going on
Reality slaps my face every time I try

Stand up
I have no more will to keep my eyes opened
Without my insecticide

Run...
Run...

“Run, brother!”
I see the light calling me
For me, no hope and no peace

I cut my fingers off to get pure
And pray for not waking up tomorrow
Another day without sun

Pump my reality!
Pump my reality!

Pump!