Ponderings of a Night Owl

Sometimes it makes me angry,
Most times it makes me sad,
Often it leaves me hungry
For having what others had.

And rarely it makes me joyful,
But sometimes it makes me cry,
Yet most times it makes me mindless
And leaves me to wonder why.

This sore of my heart is empty,
but so is the blight-ridden cold,
as the sun takes the day with its vengance,
and plunges me in to so-so.