In the basement of echoes and noise,
Where the walls are lined with old vinyls and florescent lights,
We carve out our corners, our sanctuaries from lies.
We write on the margins where the ink runs dry,
On scraps of cardboard and stolen moments alive.
Zines and flyers spread like whispers in night,
Rumors of revolution, no room for polite.
Here we learn to fight with what's left behind,
Not just words but actions that feel so fine.
No more waiting for someone else to take charge,
We'll do it ourselves, on this raw, punk edge.
In the corner where chaos meets calm,
A girl assembles a toolkit from harm.
Bands of duct tape and safety pins tight,
Her hands move fast as her mind takes flight.
She's seen all the failures, the traps laid too late,
The heroes who burn out, taking names with them to fate.
But she doesn't dwell on what could have been,
Only moves forward, the lessons she has taken in.
Punk ethics guide her through the dark,
DIY heartbeats sync with the spark.
No more volunteer debt that drags down and drains,
Each act of solidarity a shield against the stains.
Here's to the ones who build rather than break,
Whose voices rise up before they fade into smoke.
We're not saving the world in one bold, big move,
But we're making it better with every small groove.
So here's to those nights where the music plays loud,
And the dance floor is crowded with hearts that are proud.
In this space of our own, we'll keep on creating,
Because sometimes change starts from a single vibration.
-- CINDER
"diy doesn't mean disorganized."
--- SBBSecho 3.37-Linux
* Origin:
telnet://futureland.today https://blockbra.in (3323:1/100)