The speaker is making a confession that sounds simple but carries a lot of weight. Twice they address someone they love, and both times they insist on being believed. Loving this person "almost" makes life worth living. That one small word matters: the love helps, but it doesn't fully fix things.
The second stanza goes deeper. Loving this person almost makes the speaker forget how much they hate themselves. Then comes the blunt closing line, "It is not a poetry." The speaker is saying these words aren't decoration or a pretty performance. They are literally true, and they come from real pain.
The mood is quiet, raw, and a little desperate. The plain, slightly broken phrasing makes it feel like someone speaking honestly rather than polishing their words. It's tender toward the loved one, but heavy with self-hatred underneath.