The Rhyming One.

Some days I fear the ground may rise
and pincers'd steal orchids out of eyes
and leave instead small, red doors,  
a Harlequin wonderland upon all fours.
I've never quite been one for rhyme,
either lost fingers or ate them, frustrated with mine.
I suppose I lack the dedication
to keep my words in rhyming formation
and even if one day I did conform
it begins of interest but then transforms
into a tragic penny-dreadful write
to which I'd be kicked from my poetic flight
although I'm not sure I was ever in  
the circle that holds the 'wit' within
and are ever inspired, ever filled with words
while I still struggle between rhyming and absurd.  
When finally it comes to light,
I've written another rhyming plight
to an old friend I once used to be,
an innocent penny-dreadful version of me.