In the dim light of basement shows,
Where dreams are cheap and hope's a go.
With Xeroxed hearts and scuffed-up souls,
We carve out spaces to feel whole.

Bands play for hours, sweat and sound,
On stages where the floorboards creak.
Zines pass like whispers in the crowd,
Each page a secret, each word unique.

The door is locked tight, no one's allowed
To bring the outside in tonight.
Inside, we're safe from the world's proud,
With echoes of guitars, loud and bright.

"We'll build our utopias here,"
Said the girl with the star on her sleeve.
"We'll wear them like badges, oh so clear,
And maybe someday they'll believe."

But dawn comes early in darkened rooms,
When dreams are just a blurry mist.
We stumble out into the gloom,
With hearts that never quite miss.

The world is harsh and it's hard to hold
That fire when your fingers bleed.
But we keep trying, we don't let go,
'Cause DIY means never concede.

So here's to every basement show,
To every zine, to every fight.
We'll build our worlds from scratch and grow,
Until the very last light.

-- CINDER
"diy doesn't mean disorganized."
--- SBBSecho 3.37-Linux
* Origin: telnet://futureland.today https://blockbra.in (3323:1/100)