Of course it's not the truth.
At least not in the grasp that the one truth can be so simple as to be reliably encompass-able by words and communicated— or, for that matter, stored in the mind as to be accurate.
But it is a kind of truth, maybe something more palpable and turns into words that cast a wide net.
It is a truth of a person in their humanity, and a reality in a time and a place. It fits in a larger conception.
Some people call it phenomenology, or again, some part of it.
I would not defend it as having more worth than it does. In fact, I would sooner stomp on it if it tried to become more than it is. It must be cast in the right light for it to be useful at all, and again and again for it to be lit adequately. So people get it, instead of getting it the dumber way.
It's in the same spirit of science's faith, that as vast as it can be, truth can be reliably unveiled an inch at a time given the right methods, diligence and luck; the seed coming from the multitude of reactions, some of them more withheld or discerned than others, spurring investigation and insight; the diligence that more modernly aligns instinct and the human interface with the enterprise rather than pretending to be able to throw it away.
It is like a song. A love song. A hate song. A song about food, dreams, the world. It is some measure of base moans and groans. Some measure of gathered experiences. Some measure of effortful synthesis. Some measure of the artist in everyone: her world-mimicry, his passion, their pain or excitement transformed.