Cindy Duhe, is a just turned nineteen girl, whose most important outlet in life, and way of reaching sanity, has been through expressing herself artistically. Besides writing, Cindy loves composing music on her Victorian piano, painting, drawing, and something non-creative...bodybuilding.

Cindy says, "My future ambitions include fame, fortune, and a shot at the Presidency in the year 2020. My motto for life...and politics would have to be as follows; 'I am not a lawyer.' It sums up everything about my personality, all in a few quick words.

A painting by Cindy Duhe "Fire-Flowers" - Acrylic - 6" x 8" - 12-28-98

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Poetry by Cindy Duhe

The Life Of An Average Girl

A girl once was loved by all who surrounded her
embracing her presence, before she awoke
when into the world, she fell
a happy, naive, child.
Beautiful and shiny was the sun that graced the fields
around
she grew,
taller,
healthier,
but less happy and more dull
became the sun,
to her.

Her home was a shoe-box
her life, a hell
dreams were her only escape from the pity
she layed upon herself.
And, so many dreams she had, too.
Larger than life-than any before her.
All would love her, yet again
only less truly
and for insincere reasons.

Complacency killed her, as she became more determined.
Life's purpose drug on like molasses
no end to the longs sludgings.
She was a realist.

Yet, still, she wanted to be somebody
really a person to be admired.
As she grew
desperate, she needed money.
Jobs came and
drug on.

This fate was not as predicted.
Life could never be planned,
yet,
not all days were bad.
She met people
who loved her.

She died,
years later
not having fulfilled her dreams
not being the somebody she had dreamt of
but to those who felt love
for her,
she was somebody
genuine,
complete,
and GRAND.

Stranded

If the vultures prey on
those who pray
who will be left to congregate
in the churches of adobe
built long ago
by those who could survive
in a more harsh abode.
It is strength brought out
by the birds in the sky
who make the weak
rethink death,
learning to trudge onward
and cease asking why.

Youth and Candor

Filled with folly,
the jolly of play,
raking my mistaken sense
of archaeology.
Plastic dolls in the
majestic sun,
gesturing dreams in a
contented reality.
Swooning moon pies
on the incredulous tide,
pining over pine,
since the beginning of time.
Gleeful in bliss,
tapping toes in the mud,
wasps watching closely,
blowing bubbles from suds.
Sitting, as sure as a fence,
setting up tea at twelve sharp,
playing with my tea-party-crows
until the sun blows out of the sky for the night,
winking its blinking head to my crown.
Whispering with crickets and old, smoky pits.
bidding adieu with a full harvest moon,
swinging, as the stars drove by.
With mosquitoes eating,
and everyday repeating
nothing but joy and simple truths,
as were the same, lazy summers of my youth.

The Wrong Action

As always, the
Fury of the past becomes
Ferociously
Ingrained in our present, as we
Remain human, to a fault,
Monitoring our
Actions, so
That we may relive what we hated about our predecessors,
Intrinsically leading a truly
Visceral
Existence in the process.

And, if it were proposed that there would be any other way, we would
Cower in shame
That the easiest part of all would have been to
Individually think, rather than allowing caucuses to think for us,
Opposing all that is decent and correct, while opting for a strongly
persisting
Negativity. That is the only way in which we are happy.

Breast

Take the
mysticism
away from
the breast,
and it's just
a blob of fat.

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