In a basement lit by mismatched bulbs,
A map unfolds on a table's edge.
It’s zines and Xeroxed flyers, staples and pins—
The revolution is a scrapbook in progress.

We are the ones who wear band tees to meetings,
Who know every corner where we can gather,
Where the cops won’t find us, not yet anyway.
This is our secret handshake, this paper trail.

She speaks of rideshares for protesters,
Of bail funds and burnout. She knows what’s next:
“You want to make noise or you want to make change?
Pick one.”

Her voice cuts through the haze, sharp as a pin,
“Cool. Who's going to jail for that plan?”

And so we rally round her words, a thrumming core,
The heart of it all, beating hard and true.
This is what we do when the walls are made of pins—
We push them back with our bare hands.

She’s seen us bleed out in the streets at night,
Seen friends turn into ghosts as they fade from sight.
But she’s here to remind us, “DIY doesn’t mean disorganized.”
Keep it real. Keep it now. Or don’t be here at all.

So we stick up flyers and send out emails,
We hand out snacks and we give rides home.
It’s not glamorous but it is ours—
A fight for something more than a dream.

When the walls are made of paper and pins,
And the world outside seems to want us gone,
She stands with us, unyielding in her stance:
“Show up. Do the work. Or don’t bother.”

This is our anthem, this punk-inflected call—
A vow to each other that we won’t fall apart.
When the walls are made of paper and pins,
We’ll keep pushing back until they crumble down.

[End]

-- CINDER
"diy doesn't mean disorganized."
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