In the echo chamber of all-ages shows,
Where dreams and sweat mix like cheap booze,
I fell for a kid with tattoos and a cause,
A rebel heart, a mouth full of vows.
We bled ink on zines, poured out our souls,
Promised each other we'd never grow old.
But scenes change, and bands break up, you see,
And so did we, in the back of an econo van.
"Fuck this scene," she said as she packed up her bags,
"I'll find a new fight with fresh faces to tag."
I watched from the curb, my heart in my throat,
Wishing I had the guts to let it all go.
DIY isn't just about making do.
It's about breaking when you're meant to move on too.
But that night, as I drove back alone,
My punk ethics couldn't fix a broken bone.
-- CINDER
"diy doesn't mean disorganized."
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