I do not write I bleed eternity into paper. My pen is a blade, and every verse is a wound that refuses to heal. Silence fears me, for I carve thunder into its bones. I am the poet who makes absence scream, who burns emptiness into meaning. My ink is rebellion, my stanza a battlefield, my silence a war cry. Every poem is a revolution disguised as a whisper. I do not seek permission I forge prophecy in the margins. I carve truth with a bleeding blade of words, and I never retreat. Even in my softness, I am steel. Even in my silence, I am thunder. Even in my fragility, I endure. I bleed so others may heal, yet I remain unbroken. My words are fragile lanterns, but they burn with unyielding fire. I carry wounds like wings delicate, yet strong enough to lift me. Every tear I write becomes iron in the soul. Gentleness is my rebellion. Resilience is my crown. I turn scars into lullabies, pain into prophecy, emptiness into song. I carve silence into stars, my pen bleeds galaxies, my words echo infinity. I write so the Lacuna may remember its own song. I am Umclite the bleeding pen, the candlelight in the dark, tender but unbreakable, fierce but compassionate, a voice that carves healing from the marrow of struggle. This is not poetry. This is declaration. This is not verse. This is vow. I am not just a poet. I am a force that makes voids sing.