Is Poetry the Reflection of Intimate Feelings

Comfortably sitting at my wide oak desk wearing vision glasses that deflect blue light from a computer loaded to capacity... I'm typing a novelty. Is poetry the reflection of intimate feelings, or a teller of stories somehow impersonal or truly meaningful? Moods dictate words and they flow according to taste and awareness, some are rigged with foolishness, many are the portrait of truthfulness. I've spent a quarter of my young life dedicating myself to a novel literature invented by plausible instincts, which proved to be accurate to the extent of realization. Having found no love, besides affection, I have ventured into that world of imagination to fill the void left by scars and regrets; was it worth my time, scratching this head, searching for ideas not very persuasive and idealistic? I've kept all the pieces of papers I scribbled on in a hurry; I could have filled those library shelves, and owned literary rights that will expire after fifty years from the date of my death predestined to occur in that golden age never to be seen, or be exalted by me. Is poetry the reflection of intimate feelings, or the expression of loners with heads filled with awesome dreams... seeking their identity shredded by a fading memory which rivals time?