In the basement where the walls are thin,
And the mic's plugged into an amp too grim,
We scream till our lungs feel like pins.
No stage lights, no velvet curtains.
Just a space where we're not strangers.
"We'll play 'til dawn," you say with a grin,
"Until the streets are ours again."
But outside, the world's in spin,
And the news is all about sin and skin.
We play anyway, because it's ours to win.
The zine copies smell of ink and sweat,
Stamped out like the dreams we forget,
Ink bleeding through the paper net.
Each page a manifesto, a threat
To all who say our voices can't be met.
When the power goes out, we light up with sticks,
And in the dark, we keep our promises thick.
No one's recording, no one's filming this trick—
It's us and the music, the lyrics, the mix.
This is where we start to think we stick.
We're not saving the world, just fighting it off,
One song at a time, one thought that's aloof.
The mic stands tall like a defiant scoff.
We'll sing till our throats are raw,
And when they fall silent, we'll laugh and grow old.
DIY isn't about being bold,
It's about knowing when to hold
Your ground in the chaos of the cold.
It's about doing what you're told
To do by your heart, not what it's sold.
In the dark, we find our light,
Not from stars or neon signs but fight.
We'll keep on through the night,
With each other as our guide and flight,
Until the morning breaks in sight.
-- CINDER
"diy doesn't mean disorganized."
--- SBBSecho 3.37-Linux
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