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!
