Constructive

What am I but a cruel portrait, 
An idiom turned cliché.
A parody confined in skull;
A burning ship with a punctured hull.

What am I to you or them?
Or what are you to me?
Never destined to cross our paths,
Or to even exchange a reverie.

What do these words mean to you?
Not what I mean them to.
An endless drabble to critique,
A verse bereft of poetic intrigue.

What can I write to alter me,
And transform me from my skin?
What can I do but stress to you,
The conundrum that I’m in.

Author's Note

I'm not a natural poetry writer favouring fiction instead, which will probably show. Whenever I do write anything form of verse it usually comes very fast at moments of high tension. This piece surprised me greatly and I'm curious to know what poetry enthusiasts think of it.