In the heart of the echo chamber,
Where whispers turn to shouts,
We hold our ground like roots.
The system's rot is thick as mud;
Our boots slip, but we stand up.
Beneath the neon static sky,
A city breathes in binary code.
Silent hands pass messages,
Tangled webs of hope and hate.
Threads fray where heroes fade.
In the underground, we trade
Zines for stories, dreams for lives.
The old guard's wisdom wears thin;
New blood learns to bleed on cue.
Survive or die, it's up to you.
We're not saviors; just survivors,
Battered shields against the storm.
DIY ethics carve our path:
Do what needs doing, damn the cost.
No room for empty posturing here.
In this world of dirt and static,
Each heartbeat is a rebel song.
The rhythm keeps us moving on,
Through protest lines and mutual aid,
We fight back with every breath.
So let the noise consume the night;
Our voices rise in stark defiance.
This is our war, this is our fight.
-- CINDER
"diy doesn't mean disorganized."
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