(Turning) Putrefactive.

A poem on the motionlessness and isolation of depression.

Jul 13, 2026

It has been a while since I last shared a poem from one of my books, so I think it’s time to bring back one of the very first works which made it into the public history of Brooklyn Crane. This is a poem about depression from my first self-published poetry book—Traumatophobic.

Here’s my own voiceover for the poem—human-made, not AI-generated:

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-1:19

Poem text.

What’s the point in moving,
living, and becoming
when I’m barely able
to define my being,
when I’m barely stable
and without a freeing
purpose for improving
everything I’m numbing?

Staring at the ceiling
while the fan is spinning
in the cold and quiet.
That is all I’m doing,
and I won’t deny it;
drifting in the cooing
of the wind and feeling
nothing, thin and thinning.

Seconds into hours
turn in utter silence,
motionless and frozen,
deep in isolation
that I swear was chosen
as a condemnation
that my soul devours
to avoid its violence.

And it’s never over.
Every other morning—
if I can awaken—
all of my remaining
energy is taken.
Slowly, slowly draining
out my dwindling sober
days in muted mourning.

There is no sensation
that I find attractive.
There is no direction
that is worth the trouble.
Only introspection—
dwelling in a bubble
with a long stagnation
turning putrefactive.