Target Practice For Cupid Poem by John Paul Butler

So many points are piercing me inside
As Cupid himself with his bow uses
The layers and chambers of my heart
For his own personal target practice

It's worse than a pincushion could be
And the opposite at the same time
So if you consider my love over the top
This is the why and l make no apology

And if you believe that's bad then see
The rest of me where he's missed
Now all of my internal organs love you
Each in their strange and distinct way

Every dawn there's a fresh barrage
Of these arrows for me to deal with
But you'd think he'd be a better shot
After all this time wouldn't you

From quiver to bow to me and l quiver
It makes me feel like l'm flying high
So is that what's putting him off here
And he's missing most of his shots

Or loving his job far too much does he
Shoot himself over again in the foot
Either that or he has no real grounding
And just wings it as he goes along