Your honest opinion, please.?

I'm not really sure you'll think this is a poem, just an inspired little paragraph I suppose.

Skin on skin (not my skin), I feast my eyes upon you.
I am burnt up and spent up and insulted.
She cannot write you words the way I do, she cannot feign such originality.
But I am monstrous and messy.
And I cannot pluck the vileness from my skin, like barbs driven deep into my tendons.
True beauty and the beast, was she warm against your chest?

All poets are brooding and starved, injured and psychotic, but on this subject, I will not be swayed.