Fernando Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet (Penguin Classics, 2002) is a great companion as you write. Pessoa (1888-1935) perfectly sets forth the dilemma of the poet. Or at least, he describes the problems of this one writing this poem:
"The only tragedy is not being able to conceive of yourself as tragic. I've always clearly seen that I coexist with the world. I never clearly felt that I needed to coexist with it. That's why I've never been normal.
To act is to rest.
All problems are insoluble. The essence of there being a problem is that there is no solution. To look for a fact means the fact doesn't exist. To think is to not know how to be."
The moon is so dazzling that as I was walking the dogs, my fingers made perfect shadows against the snow.