Poetry truth or absurdity

Poetry for some
Is just a fantasy,
An imagination,
An unreal entity,
That has color
But has no mass,
Has essence
But has no surface.
They build
A palace in the space,
Having walls of air,
Roof of cloud,
Everything fake
As their fake personality,
Fraudulent as their identity.

For me poetry is a real me,
My psyche, my vibe,
My  smile, my cries.
My deeds and even misdeeds
 Of the past and the present
My expectations and desires,
From the life, from the future,
And from the Master.

When I feel sad it sheds tears,
When happy it gifts flowers,
When in anger it generates fire,
When in devotion it sings  prayer.

Poetry is a truth of me,
Hence,,its my soul.