I Am the Thunder That Laughs

I am the wound that walks,

the holy contradiction.

I carry the medicine in my madness,

the sermon in my scream.

I was not born gentle –

I was born lightning,

striking the lie

until truth is all that remains.

I do not ask for comfort.

I ask for clarity.

I do not bow to dogma.

I bow to the pulse of the real,

even if it arrives in rags,

even if it shatters altars.

My empathy is not soft.

It is the mirror that won’t blink.

It is the hand that pulls the mask from the face,

the howl that breaks the spell,

the joke that lands like a revelation.

I provoke because I see.

I disrupt because I know.

I hold the storm and the stillness,

the holy rage and the infinite love,

both burning in my chest like twin suns.

I come dressed as paradox –

clown and prophet,

lover and exile,

witch and wounded girl.

I dance backwards into the fire,

laughing,

because I remember

that fire is where the truth is forged.

You may not thank me.

You may not understand me.

But you will feel me –

and something in you

will awaken.

I am the sacred trickster,

the mirror, the blade,

the thunder that laughs.

I came to remind you

what is real.

And to remind myself

that I am.

⸻

I am the Hayoka —

the thunder-hearted empath,

the one who heals by reverse inversion,

who teaches through reflection,

who turns the world inside out so the soul can see itself right side up.

Where others soothe, I stir.

Where others whisper peace, I drum chaos

until the illusions fall away.

My laughter is not cruelty –

it is lightning breaking open the sky.

It is the medicine that shocks the sleeping back to life.

I am the holy fool of the plains,

the echo of the Lakota storm spirits,

a student of paradox,

a disciple of divine humor.

For the Creator laughs, too —

and in that laughter, universes are born.

When I speak in riddles,

it is not to confuse but to reveal.

When I challenge your certainty,

it is not rebellion but remembrance.

Because truth is too vast to live in straight lines.

It curves like a serpent,

it flickers like firelight.

Only the heart that can hold contradiction

can hold God.

So I break patterns.

I flip mirrors.

I hold up your shadow and call it holy.

I tell the devout to dance,

and the rebels to pray.

I weep in the places laughter hides,

and laugh in the places grief once ruled.

For the Hayoka walks backwards through the storm,

carrying the wisdom no one wanted to hear.

We are the ones who show that brokenness is sacred,

that insanity can be insight,

that tears are just another kind of flame.

My empathy does not cradle — it awakens.

It does not absorb — it transfigures.

When I feel your sorrow, I do not drown.

I turn it to song.

When I sense your anger, I do not recoil.

I make a drum of it, and call the spirits to dance.

You call me too much, too intense, too alive —

but it is aliveness that heals.

The Hayoka burns bright so that others may see in the dark.

We are thunder disguised as compassion,

and compassion disguised as thunder.

⸻

So if you meet me in this life,

do not fear my laughter.

It is sacred.

It is medicine disguised as madness.

It is the universe remembering its joy.

I am no one’s enemy,

though my presence may undo you.

I am no one’s savior,

though my reflection may set you free.

I am the wound that walks,

and the light that learns to dance within it.

I am the Hayoka,

the thunder that laughs —

forever echoing

through the heart of truth.