Home » Poems » Best » Anna Makoujy » Best Anna Makoujy Poems

Best Poems Written by Anna Makoujy

Below are the all-time best Anna Makoujy poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Anna Makoujy Poem

Not a Human

I have once pulled out my hair.
Eaten my tongue and sliced the skin.
Closed my throat and-hanging-flailed.
Cross the Styx in death's boat I've ridden.
Dying-slowly-with bones weak and frail
by darkness and despair as I see no light.
My heart weighs heavy for the test it failed:
too sick to be a human, quite.

I have danced to the tune of Pan,
and sang a song to the Man in the Moon.
Tossed off my clothes and naked I ran,
to my grave as I face my doom.
Dark closing in on the left and right,
as I close the doors to my tomb.
A human? Hah! Not a human quite.

I have felt the cold steel of chains.
My wrists internally raw.
Grit my teeth in all my pain-
in my face, 'tis the Horned One you saw.
I have abandoned this hopeless flight,
and been lost in a sea of flaws.
Too flawed to be a human, quite.

I have once been clear as air:
Invisible, yet you breathe.
As air, I am treated rarely ever fair.
You walk through me all the while I seethe.
I am nothing-you are immune to my plight,
for in me you will never believe.
For I will never be human, quite.

Details | Anna Makoujy Poem

Dancing To the Tune of the Donkey

The once was a lass with no class.
She was the world's biggest horse's ass.
Yet the irony remains,
that the girl with all the brains, 
listened to the lass with no class.

Details | Anna Makoujy Poem

O Gentleman, O Gentleman

O gentleman, o gentleman! don't fear the work is done.
You've held you're own (eyes closed) you definitely won.
You succeeded on landing, left the bar exulting
You bought the drink and supplied the vessel of your daring.
     But my heart, my heart, my heart!
        White sheets spotted red
            Where on the bed I coldly lie
                heartbroken, battered, dead.

O gentleman, o gentleman, you rise when you hear your cell,
The deed is done, you rose and won, but now it loudly trills.
Expect no flowers, expect no wreaths, you lady has come a-crowing
For you she calls, her beckoning thighs, her eager body yearning.
     Here lover, handsome man
        Come lay down your sweet head.
           Pray was a dream of mine last night
               Now I'm heartbroken, battered, dead.

The gentleman does not answer, he motions me be still.
He'll never crave my touch again, no more kisses does he will.
He takes this round, his satisfaction done
His brazenness meant his object won.
     Exult you catch with ringing bells
        But I shall keep my bed
            Here I shall mourn your lies
                heartbroken, battered, dead.

Details | Anna Makoujy Poem

Letter To My Sister

Dear Sister,

I am writing
to let you know
how glad I am
you are gone.
How much I appreciate
your presence not
being near mine.
How much more
I like you
when I don't have to 
tolerate you
on a daily 
basis.

So I have 
but one
simple request.
Please 
stay
as far away
as you possibly can.
Because then
I like you 
much better. 

I send you 
my best
and hope
you will grant
my request.

Always your sister,
never your friend

Details | Anna Makoujy Poem

Letter To My Young Lover

If this letter
should ever reach you,
I'll be surprised.
It reveals too much.
It bares my soul,
and I fear that I may come out 
damaged.
I fear that in my tiredness
(due to lack of sleep)
I may speak too much.

What bond we share
from that early age, has only
strengthened.
And if it has not strengthened
(for that is my perception only)
it might have changed 
for the better.
We find ourselves
more than friends;
we find out bodies drawn together
(like bears to honey)
and our hearts beat with more
than simple fondness.

Dare I utter that word?
The word of which men flee
and I thought to scorn 
at such a young age?
May it be... love?

It makes sense in my eyes
that I would love
my oldest remaining childhood friend.
Mature now, in mind and body;
with no more chubby cheeks
and now sporting stubble
that I crave to feel upon my softer skin.

What men I have met (seems to be singular)
who devote their lives
to protect that which they leave
behind.
Eighteen and ready
for arms.
I dread the thought of your departure,
but more so your return
clad in oak and velvet.

But I hold on tight,
to that single thought that identifies
you as my match:
the children that would welcome
their daddy home at the end of each day.
I would have your children.
I would bear your babies.
Perhaps three or four
with my eyes
and your hair.
I wait for that day, when our souls shall intertwine
and fill each other,
and in my verdant womb,
love shall nourish our family.

Perhaps we can give our son
the name of his father:
My true love,
and the best man I have ever known.

Always and Forever,

--------------

Details | Anna Makoujy Poem

Nights

After the night must come
the next day
when out in the sun
the truth finally lays.
The men aren't the same
-like Jekyll and Hyde-
and they place the blame
on her soul as it dies. 

The sun has revealed
(with certainty)
and what the night concealed
at last is seen.
And hearts are crushed
by a hammer's swing
though skin was flushed
by pleasuring.

The night cuts chains
it kills off dreams. 
The stabs of pain 
release the screams
of innocence lost
and fresh blood shed...
was it worth the cost
to see sheets stained red?

Details | Anna Makoujy Poem

Women, Be Forewarned

Why is it so?
That men fear
emotion?
Any affection they spurn
but all the while, yearn,
for rejection.
If a woman were 
to show her wants
and desire him,
he becomes 
unattainable, 
but the moment
her broken heart
finally heals
from his former wounds
he worships the ground
her feet embrace.

Realize the pain that 
results
when he chooses to ignore...
until she returns the favor.

Women, be forewarned!
A man wants 
what he cannot have 
so... 
to keep his affections
one must never give
and hint or return of
affection, emotion,
lust, devotion
or desire.

Resemble stone
and he shall want.
Be forewarned!
for the moment
the stone bleeds, 
he shall not want...
but leave.

Details | Anna Makoujy Poem

Fear of Ladders

One time, when I was about
eight or nine, 
Poppa climbed up onto the roof.
He was fixing something
(I don't remember what)
but he called me up.
He wanted me to see 
the sunset
uninterrupted by the houses
and trees of the neighborhood.

It was my first time
up high
and as I ascended
my hands gripped tight
to the cold aluminum of the ladder
bare toes curled
like talons
around the rungs.
Safety was gone
as the ground was left behind;
I looked down
and saw the soft green grass
and earth waiting beneath
and shook.
My eyes moistened and I blinked
trying to quell my fear
but still, I shook.

My knees rattling together 
like tambourines
I held on tight but lost control,
my head spinning.
In my moment of panic
I leapt. 
Fear had driven me,
propelled me from my perch
because, in my dizziness
I thought the ladder was falling.

There I lay
my knees caked in dirt
and grass stains
from where I landed,
my legs hurting from
the impact of landing
(not a bit gracefully).
I sat up and stared
at the ladder, rising high above
and knew I would not try again.

To this day
I have not conquered my fear:

But another ladder calls
-a stepping stool-
to that larger world 
I cannot see
for my view from earth
is obstructed by houses and trees.

I pinch my eyes closed
and feel blindly
for that bottom step
of cold metal upon flinching skin
and climb.
I grip tightly to the handholds
allowing aluminum to cut
into my fleshy palms
for the scars will serve to remind
of fear conquered.
Step by step I rise
higher towards the blue heavens
knees knocking the whole way.
I keep my lids tightly shut
for then there is no illusion
of tipping ladders.
Don't jump! Don't jump!
No blind leaps of faith!
Rather, a blind step towards
an unobstructed sunset.
As I climb skyward, blindly
I feel my face begin to heat
from the rays of sun that peer
over the crest of the roof.
Is it safe? 
May I open my eyes?

With tender uncertainty
my lids lift
and my eyes are blessed with the sight
of a bird's eye view of unblocked
light;
the sun bathed in 
rainbow hues
of tangerines and 
night influenced magentas.

My eyes behold
the setting sun
Apollo, receding below the horizon
as the night begins to cloak the world
in naught but dark and starry skies.

I have seen -at last-
the beautiful sun's descent.
I have conquered my ladder.

Details | Anna Makoujy Poem

The Disengagement

I am attending a party;
for which, I am the only guest.

It's my disengagement.
I celebrate the death
of my other soul
with poisoned punch.
My glass is raised high
casting bright red prisms of light
onto the empty dance floor and
onto the band's music stands.
But there is no music...
only the Battle Hym of the Republic plays,
but only in my head.
I can hear the drums
tap in between my ears:

prrrrrr rat!
prrrrrr rat!
prrrrrr rat! ta tat tat tat!

Suddenly I'm a child again,
and all I want to do is march.
March (left, right, left, right)
to the band that plays
in the Fourth of July parade.
I want to march with them
and never stop until I'm
far away from main street
and the ties that bind.
I want to march away from
my daddy's calloused hands,
and my mommy's baking,
and my brothers' begging and crying.

I'm celebrating my 
disengagement.
I'm moving away.
My other soul, my other person
is dead.

I'm celebrating my 
disengagement
alone and 

free.

Can you see my ring?
I bought it for myself.
It's no big rock of diamonds.
(Simple and pure).
A ring that should tie
has set me free.

I am disengaged.

Tomorrow...
I shall visit
the grave of my dead soul.
I shall place flowers
on the freshly uprooted earth.

I shall not mourn.

Details | Anna Makoujy Poem

Frozen

I lay myself out 
on the window sill
basking in the sun's golden glow
I am still
and dip my hand
in the sun's yellow rays
hoping to catch a piece of warmth.

Yet the window is ice
and my heart is cold
my fingers are blue
and wrinkled and old.
My numb digits tingle,
with the urge to break free
and feel more than just a chill.

I press my palms up against the glass
and recall a memory
that occurred long in past
of a man and woman sitting beside
a pink cherry tree
with all their time to bide.

A lover's pair meet
in gentle passion 
it seems
but upon closer look one sees tears 
on her cheeks
and could swear that the flowers on 
the cherry tree die
and the air has turned to cold.

Holding on tight she grasps 
his hand
yet he pulls and slips 
through her fingers like sand:
the tiny grains one can never 
contain
he leaves her all alone.

The woman is torn
that is plain to see
she stands frozen still
under that pink cherry tree
with her heart in her hands
she feels it start to crack
and as it breaks she turns
her back.

Then the flowers are gone,
the wind starts to blow
and as the snow falls
her tears freely flow
like a brook down her face
until they, like her heart,
finally, solidly, freeze and stop.

I remember that day
every last single second
can't ever forget 
for my memory beckons.
It calls my name and
my broken heart
and were not for ice
I would fall apart.

Perhaps it would be
better to heat
the heart that is frozen 
it might offer release.
Yet I remain a hard sculpture 
of ice crystal clear
and my heart remains terribly broken
I fear.