Why don't people write poetry when they are happy? Because you don't need to digest happiness, you just let it wash over you.
What would happen if, instead, we digested happiness through words and poured struggle and sorrow onto our heads so it dripped down our chins and leaked in our minds and slid down our shoulders and backs and legs and made a puddle of tears at our feet?
Our books would be filled with joy that generations could read for years to come. And they wouldn't think us a boring lot, but find smiles in our words, and fondness in our memories. So the ground would be covered sadness... it would water the plants, and strengthen our souls, and nourish our minds, and that wouldn't be so bad would it?
Because when it's all said and done... you can step out of a puddle. But if a pen is a sword and the words are it's ink I'd much prefer those words to be loved.