Dear Cupid
You cross-eyed, irresponsible bastard
How hard it is to aim an arrow
How heavy is your gilded bow
Who was responsible for choosing you
To carry such in your weak, giddy, fairy arms
Setting poor hearts aflame
Drawn towards cruel inevitable harm
Your aim does hit me true
But for my quarry you miss
The only consolation I have earned
Is but a trifle of words said
How have your godly heart been truly pierced
When the maiden you seek, you alighted
Should your masterpieces then be abject tragedies
An ode to your incompetency
We should have chosen a better marksman
Trained better to find their target
For your folly I have learned
To love is to hurt

Leave a comment