Empty Headed

there was a boy who wrote.
words spilled from his pen,
for often he was quite alone.
the night did not assuage him,
even though it alone was
the only thing that always came back.
it made sure the boy felt lost,
and it taunted him, ignoring flack.
the night in limbo mused;
it knew the boy better than himself.
how he had been scratched, scarred, used.
only his inkshed tears paralleled such wealth,
and the darkness snickered inside and out.
he knew the boy was worthless.
what would be the point of midnight shouts?
he asks. who responds to loneliness?