I’m Deadpool,
because I can’t stop being me,
and being me
is the loneliest thing I know.
I’m Deadpool,
for I don’t know how to be normal.
Because normal was never in the cards.
because I tried—
I tried to fit in,
tried to be lovable,
tried to be whole.
But normal didn’t fit me,
and love felt like a foreign language
I could never learn.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
for I don’t believe in heroes—
least of all myself.
My sarcasm is a sword,
but it always cuts me first—
because if I’m the one wielding it,
at least I know where it’ll hurt.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
for I am immortal
in the cruelest sense.
I survive not because I want to,
but because I can’t figure out
how to stop.
Every failed escape
feels like a reminder—
even death doesn’t want me.
I’m Deadpool,
because I’m weird in a way
that makes people uncomfortable.
I don’t know how to do small talk.
I don’t know how to hide the storm inside me.
I’m the guy at the party
cracking jokes about death
while everyone shifts in their seats.
I don’t mean to be this way.
I just am.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
for I too have no direction,
only an endless spiral,
a never-ending loop of self-doubt and isolation,
a cage with no bars,
but I’m still locked inside.
I move, but it’s not forward.
I breathe, but it’s not life.
I’m nothing but the residue of someone who once thought they mattered.
And every step I take feels like I’m being buried alive.
Maybe I am deadpool,
for he can’t die,
nor do I, no matter how hard I try.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
because my friends drift away
like smoke through my fingers.
Maybe they don’t know what to say anymore.
Maybe I’m too much.
Too weird. Too broken.
I laugh too loud,
make the wrong jokes,
say the things no one wants to hear.
I’m the punchline
even when I’m not trying to be.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
because when I wake up,
it feels like a curse.
Because my reflection isn’t a face,
it’s a ******* warning—
a reminder that I’m not a survivor.
I’m just what’s left.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
because cancer is the cherry on top
of this ******-up cake.
It eats me from the inside out,
slow and merciless,
a reminder every day
that my body isn’t mine anymore.
It’s the universe’s joke,
and I’m the idiot still laughing.
I’m Deadpool,
because love is a ******* fairytale.
Who could love this?
Who could touch this mess of a man
and not flinch?
So I push them all away—
it’s easier to be alone
than to hope for something
I know I’ll never have.
I’m Deadpool,
because I don’t know how to fix this.
Don’t know how to fix me.
So I hide,
and hope no one notices
how much it hurts
to be alive.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
for I’ve got no friends,
just people who tolerate me.
People who think the jokes mean I’m fine.
But I see the way they look at me—
like I’m exhausting,
like I’m too much,
like they wish I’d stop
showing up.
I’m Deadpool,
for I keep everyone at arm’s length,
not because I want to,
but because I’m terrified
they might see the truth—
that I’m tired.
That I’m a man holding himself together
with one last shred of willpower.
That they’ll see the emptiness inside me
and leave—
or worse, stay.
And I don’t know which would **** me faster.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
for I am the sidekick of my own story,
forever in the background of lives that matter more.
The third wheel on a bike no one asked me to ride,
tagging along out of pity,
a burden in friendships
that feel more like obligations.
I’m Deadpool,
because I laugh when I should cry,
because what else can you do
when your body is your enemy?
The cancer grows quietly,
laughing as it lingers,
but it’s the smallest thing killing me.
The real disease?
It’s living.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
for I don’t heal,
I scar.
Ugly and jagged,
my body a roadmap of wars
I didn’t volunteer for.
I am the monster and the survivor,
the villain in a story I didn’t write.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
for these scars are my armor,
and I make sure everyone sees them.
Because if they don’t,
I might forget they’re the only proof
I ever fought at all.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
for I love people who only need me,
who see my broken pieces
and think they’re safe
because I’ll never ask for more
than the scraps they give.
I stay, even when it kills me,
because I don’t know how to leave.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
for I keep coming back
no matter how many times I ******* die.
Life tries to bury me,
but I dig my way out,
laughing through clenched teeth,
taunting the grave
that’s never quite deep enough.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
for I am my own contradiction:
a survivor who doesn’t want to survive,
a fighter who doesn’t believe in the fight.
I am the blood and the bandage,
the tragedy and the failure,
the scream and the silence,
the proof that some people
don’t get happy endings—
just endings.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
because I’m still here,
even when I don’t want to be.
because I don’t know how to be anything else.
to fit anywhere else but here,
in this mess,
in this pain,
in this body that betrays me every day.
I’m Deadpool,
because the world doesn’t give a **** about me,
and honestly, I don’t blame it.
But still, I stay.
because if I can’t make it better,
I’ll make it funny.
Because if I can’t win,
I’ll at least survive.
Because this is all I am—
a man who shouldn’t be alive,
but doesn’t know how to die.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
because I’m too stubborn to die,
too broken to live,
and too tired to explain
why I’m still trying.
Maybe I am Deadpool,
and maybe that’s all I’ll ever be.
A joke.
A survivor.
A walking contradiction
with nothing left to lose.