My Prose Says To Rhyme

The first time I attended a poetry slam the hosts slammed rhyming. As if the one thing that I prided myself in doing was diminutive! Lines of perfect syllables with every tail a rhyme seem too orderly and rhythmic and get stuck in a rut after several stanzas. Often rhyme in people's minds elicits Seuss and children's kinds, but they forget that Silverstein, though given first through children's shelves, also had some more mature works (I recall one about rolling joints I heard, but that might have been prose so never mind). Rhymes also place you in the realms of Frost and Poe and others who definitely are more mature, however, so I wonder where this comes from. In the end I am an orderly person and while I can live amidst the chaos I prefer my rules.