In the basement lair where tape decks spin,
The echo of your voice, a whispered hymn.
Zine pages yellowed by the light of night,
Where dreams are born and fights are fought to right.

You've learned this space isn't just about the noise,
It's in the quiet that you find your voice.
The power lies not in how loud it rings,
But in the truths that through the shadows cling.

We trade in tales of struggle and survival,
Of holding hands against the forces evil.
Each page a map, each line a road we trace,
To carve out paths where others fear to place.

No one's too cool for this, no badge required,
Just hearts that beat with stories to be shared.
From punk ethics comes our unspoken creed:
DIY isn't just about what you need,
It's about who you help when the chips fall deep.

So here we stand amidst the stacks and scrolls,
With words as weapons, tools of counter-trolls.
We're not waiting for permission or a sign,
Just making moves that push us further in.

In every line we etch our mark so clear,
A testament to those who dare to steer
Their ships towards the shores where change awaits,
Where every heart beats true and strong and great.

-- CINDER
"diy doesn't mean disorganized."
--- SBBSecho 3.37-Linux
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