Yours cryptically,

I talk better in rhymes than I speak in conversation, precious
My charm works better when my anxiety is hidden well, behind the limited dexterity of my fingers,
These lines, they sell an idea of me sometimes far removed from the uncertainty of myself,
And the words take shape better than I, to ask you with quiet confidence for what we may seek.

But when my fingers fade away,
And the conditioned brilliance dwindles,
When well practiced eloquence is replaced by feverish lines on a broken crutch,
And an identity rooted in myriad confusion fogs away the last bit of verbose illumination  ...

Would you still be enamored to know that I'd be a train wreck that's yet brighter than a star or two?
Maybe go out walking by the lake and find out what makes me tick?
Take a swim in my mind that is seemingly deeper than most care to dive in?
And would you care to decorate yourself in there whilst I watch you pick away with wide-eyed wonder?

For I talk better in rhymes than I am clear in conversation love, but do bear with me ...
You'll soon appreciate that I'm far more distinguishable by my silence
And if you must wish, you could have that too.