The Misuse of Rhyme.

I want to sleep
but I'd rather make you weep
and read my messy rhyme
because I want to kill time
painlessly, while I am at it
lest Karma hit
me back with it's best shot
while you stand there smoking pot
laughing at my misery
offering me a cup of tea
and tipping over the pot of milk,
staining my expensive silk.
But that is what you always do
so it wouldn't hurt if I were to
put you through this painful ordeal
and make a sumptuous meal
of the woes inflicted upon you by my verse,
and take advantage as you won't curse
Because you secretly grinned
while I hopelessly stringed
dissimilar words together
while grumbling about the weather
and questioning the legitimacy
of meaning in incoherency.