In the dark of the basement, where shadows stretch long,
A zine lies unmailed, a dream half-awake.
Pins and paper clips hold together our dreams tight—
Torn edges bleeding ink like blood from a cut.

This is the room where we birthed rebellion,
Where Xeroxes crackle with static and rage,
And every staple is another nail hammered in,
Another promise to keep, another fight to wage.

But outside, the world hums on without us.
The rain falls and doesn’t know our names.
We’re just a whisper against the wind now—
A memory of screams and loud demands.

Yet here we are, still dreaming big dreams small,
Inking out pages with words that sting.
Because even if no one hears our songs tonight,
We’ll sing them anyway, because it’s what we do.

And when dawn breaks over the city’s shoulders,
Our fists will be clenched tight around these hopes,
Ready to fight for every inch of sky and street
That bears our scars and stains with our sweat.

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