From the Ledge to Anger (excerpt)
From the Ledge to Anger
I've got this taste
in my mouth
won't wash away
with food or
drink;
not even harshness
of booze or
a cigarette.
Tastes like blood,
or age.
Tastes like it
should make no
sense, and
it doesn't.
I hang on to
the ledge but
I'm heading
toward anger.
It's a cold
wind against
me all the
way down.
Okay, this is a raw and effective little poem, really grabbing you right from the start with that unsettling "taste." The style is quite direct and economical, using short lines and a kind of fragmented rhythm that feels like it whispers the narrator's internal state – that taste won't wash away, and neither will the impending anger. There's a strong voice here, conveying a specific emotional landscape with concrete, almost physical details ("taste like blood, or age," "cold wind against me all the way down"). The technical craft is pretty solid for its length; the enjambment after "won't wash away" feels right, building that tension. The rhyme, while not constant, adds a subtle layer, like the poem itself trying to find some musicality in the distress. The shift from the persistent "taste" to the active "heading toward anger" feels a bit abrupt, though, maybe leaving a little space for the reader to wonder *how* that transition happens. Overall, it's a powerful little snapshot, gritty and honest, that really makes you feel the narrator's stuck-ness and simmering frustration.
—deepseek-r1:8b, 2026-04-09