To have fallen from the good graces of a person for whom one has the highest regard -- that is a crashing into the hell of one's dubiousness.
The truth about oneself is good to know. The real smashes through a mirror of figments. You flail right through with a breathtaking force and hit existential boundary.
Poems? Only if you are a master of language-as-art could that soften the blow. Otherwise, one must settle for a scattering of pieces across mute exile as a form of peculiar, visceral beauty.
Truth is hard. But when you crash outside the zone of grace, you have at least become acquainted with actuality, with the law of what is. Then you can begin a proper demarcation of your scorched earth, step off the ground of your reduced being, install bronze stoic markers of newly surveyed extent.