Frustration of An Exhausted Poet

I've tried to make words rhyme at the end of their stanzas, but rhyme wasn't too perfect for those impersonal stanzas, the Iambic pentameter was right, but it required rhyme for intensity, so rhyme didn't agree with Iambic pentameter in every verse; I paraphrased every stanza with a rephrase, but frustration stepped in with a must of an exact phrase, oh, can't a stanza rhyme with syllables without a count? Not exactly the rhyme of Terza Rima as in The Divine Comedy! Was Dante a perfect rhymer or an impulsive dreamer... while his love happily played the lyre? And did that lyre ever fail Beatrice so refulgent and proud? Or did lovely Beatrice break the lyre? Then again, vowels became consonants ironically, and vowels and consonants all out of idealism; and stressed and unstressed syllables created a strange idiom... of consonants and vowels spelling out eccentric idiopathy: the disease so unknown in literature, not idiocy, but idiopathy became idiosyncrasy...oh, you figure, reader!