Beneath the neon and the rain,
Where roots of trees are all but veins,
We carve our marks on cracked earth's skin,
A concrete jungle, a city within.

In basements lit with punk rock light,
The walls hold memories, old and tight.
Lyrics scrawled in marker ink,
Zines stacked high, stories to drink.

Each page turned, each chord strummed,
Is a fight against the unspoken rules of the dumb.
DIY ethics, solidarity's heart,
Protecting friends from getting caught in the art.

We're not here just to make noise,
To post and pose with hollow voices.
No, we're here for something more,
For change that matters, forevermore.

But tangled roots grow deep and wide,
And sometimes they get lost inside.
The purity spiral's a quick descent,
Where friends become foes, the group can't relent.

So watch out for the hero trap,
One person's all, no back-up map.
Burnout's a real thing, we've seen it time and again,
Volunteer debt leaves no one left to begin.

This is our ground, our concrete jungle,
A place where hearts and hands are strung like fiddle-bundles.
We fight the good fights, we hold each other close,
But when the night falls, we know there's no excuse for loss.

So here we stand, in this city of ours,
With roots entangled in concrete flowers.
We'll keep on fighting, day by day,
For change that sticks, not just a passing play.

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