/lit/ - Literature

I'm a living thing. It feels weird to say that. I have legs, arms, fingers, and organs. I have a brain that thinks. It's surreal to think about that. I didn't choose to have any of those things, but here I am.
For whatever reason I've never been very comfortable with having those things, and recently it's become unbearable. It's a creeping sense of absurdity directed toward being alive. There's an almost claustrophobic feeling underlying that absurdity, too. Sometimes I can hardly breathe.

Brainlet here. I never got poetry but these few sentences make me feels things that compounds of pages of praised fiction works don't. Is there a more concrete book of others poems like the ones in this thread?

"What grieves me is that my best is no good, and that another whom I
dream of, if he existed, would have done it better. Everything we do, in
art or in life, is the imperfect copy of what we thought of doing. It belies
the notion of inner as well as of outer perfection; it falls short not only of
the standard it should meet but also of the standard we thought it could
meet. We’re hollow on the inside as well as on the outside, pariahs in
our expectations and in our realizations."
- Fernando Pessoa