This is what I write too, especially in my poetry.

As to people not liking what you have to say, I know that pain too. Once when we were moving (my dad was in the Navy), my mother found some of my sketch diaries. She read all the lines I'd scribbled there along with the drawings which shaped those lines and the lines that shaped the drawings.

She called me to the bedroom where she was rifling through them. For a heartbeat, I harbored some vague idea that she was going to praise my drawings. But no… She didn't like what she saw. She threw out the journals she found, making sure to carry the bags to a dumpster to prevent me retrieving them.

IDK how many diaries it was. It seems a tall stack in my wounded memory.

Years later, as a young adult in college, a journalism student friend was looking through my sketch diaries because she loved my drawings. She told me my "poetry is wonderful." I didn't even realize those scribbled lines were actually poetry until she pointed it out.