My energy tank is on empty, and the charger is nowhere in sight; it's not just physical tiredness, my soul feels worn thin. I'm running on fumes, and the engine is sputtering, making the world feel heavy and leaving me without the strength to carry it. There's a quiet exhaustion that settles deep in my bones, a weariness that sleep just can't fix, like a well that's run dry. My spirit is weary, and my body just follows suit, feeling like I'm wading through thick mud even when I'm standing still, as if the spark has dimmed and it's hard to find the match.
The world outside spins, bright and bold,
A story I'm too tired to be told.
My limbs are lead, my spirit dust,
A hollow shell consumed by rust.
The tasks pile up, a silent plea,
But energy has fled from me.
It's not the couch, the soft embrace,
But an unseen war I can't outpace.
A quiet storm within my soul,
Has taken its relentless toll.
And in its wake, a heavy shroud,
Where even whispers feel too loud.
So I lie still, a wilting bloom,
Lost in this self-created room.