Don't listen to me

I would try to sum up my being,
My thought, into something creative.
Cause that's what artists do, don't they?

They write themselves through eloquent words,
That critics and readers fawn over,
And remark on how beautiful it is.

But there is no point.
These words will crumble to dust eventually,
Just like my body,
Just like my thoughts.

The only reason why I'm putting pen to paper,
Is to ward away the suffocating boredom.

And so, I shout into the void,
Because that's all I have left.
Nothing.
There is nothing here for me.

And sure, there's 'friendship' and 'happiness,'
But soon I and them will be dead,
And what is happiness?
A fleeting feeling that can't reach the void?

But we all return there.
I don't need any more happiness,
I have felt it, isn't that enough?
It's not so enticing that I need to feel it again.

Happiness is very mundane, it is not important.