Dying dreams

A mug of coffee to people means a new beginning but to me is like a dying dream. The hotness of water splashing on the lips of my pen and dark bitter taste of grounded beans of problems, sadness and pain. People are wondering how did it went wrong when it seems so right. When everything turns into bland and as cold as frost water in a can. The morning is killing me with the thoughts in my head, to survive in the wild with the tigers surrounding a tiny deer like me. My laptop stop moving and stucked in an hour. My internet moves as faster as the snail and turtle in the mud. My phone lag and my dreams had died. Maybe in another life, I'll become who I want. Full of happiness and pride.