In our recent exploration of emotional exhaustion, we’ve touched upon the many ways this profound weariness manifests. We’ve discussed the physical symptoms, the mental fog, the irritability that creeps in. But sometimes, words like “tired” or even “exhausted” simply don’t seem to fully grasp the deep, pervasive drain on our spirit. They fall short of articulating the true depth of what it feels like when your emotional well runs dry.

This poem, “Tired Doesn’t Cover,” is an attempt to capture that ineffable feeling. It’s a raw, honest look at the silent, internal landscape of depletion – a space where the usual language of fatigue simply fails. Perhaps, as you read, it will echo something you’ve felt, or are feeling, and offer a moment of recognition and understanding.

Tired Doesnt Cover

Tired doesn’t cover this. It’s more than bone,
A weariness that’s settled, deep and known.
Not from the miles, the labor of the hands,
But from the spirit, scattered through the lands
Of others’ burdens, left upon my floor,
And doors I opened, asked for nothing more.

Tired doesn’t cover how my mind feels thin,
A faded echo, where the thoughts begin.
The sharp edges dulled, the colors turned to grey,
Each task a mountain, stretching through the day.
The simplest choice, a labyrinth to roam,
Just wanting silence, longing to be home.

Tired doesn’t cover why the tears now sting,
At trivial moments, anything they bring.
A fragile shell, where patience used to dwell,
Now cracks and shatters, trapped within a hell
Of quick frustration, whispers of despair,
Too much to carry, more than I can bear.

Tired doesn’t cover the forgotten gleam,
The passion faded, like a waking dream.
The joy diminished, once so bright and bold,
A story whispered, now rarely told.
Disconnected, from the life I craved,
My authentic spirit, quietly enslaved.

Tired doesn’t cover the pervasive chill,
The muted feelings, standing strangely still.
No fire, no anger, just a vacant hum,
Waiting for something, anything to come
And break this silence, this internal night,
And pull me gently back towards the light.

Tired doesn’t cover this profound, deep ache,
The empty reservoirs, for goodness sake.
It’s letting go of strength I thought was mine,
Accepting limits, drawing a new line.
A raw surrender, whispered, soft, and low,
A plea for solace, just to let me go.

And in that whisper, a fragile hope takes root,
Acknowledging the exhaustion’s bitter fruit.
For tired doesn’t cover, but it points the way,
To deep replenishment, starting from today.
To quiet spaces, boundaries, gentle care,
And knowing truly, what my soul can bear.