The Deafening Sound of my own silence

I speak, but am never heard.
Even in pin drop silence, it all stays in my head.
My thoughts, from neuron to neuron,
are stopped in their tracks; the path they're on
just as they are about to reach the gate,
that will allow me to speak my mind.
And my resilience puts it all behind me,
social norms define what i can and cannot say.
I confine the voice in my head,
and it treads back to its prison;
somewhere in the far recesses of my brain.
And the cycle starts again.

See, my eyes assess my situation, 
and somehow when my words reach the motor neuron
the reflex action is to keep my mouth shut.
And they come back to me at night,
flowing through my hand as I write
as the ink permanently brands them on paper.
Or they accumulate long enough to form the first tear,
that triggers the ocean of thoughts to come, 
flowing out and drenching my pillow.

The taciturnity makes me unscrupulous;
my comments kept behind a wall 
as they gospel things they don't know.
But no, de jure.
My freedon of speech is no freedom at all.
And the lamentation of every word unspoken,
slowly leaves me broken;
without an identity of my own.
But I'm a pupet of expectation;
to follow an illusion of a civilisation,
concocted even before I was born
but I still have to concede.

More grey clouds, and I keep telling myself, "Tomorrow,
the sun will come out..."
But it does not, 
and the voice in my head never sees light.
And when it does, it's ephemeral,
returning in paralysed attitudes, 
from their comments, their words
that have no filters like mine.
Out of their mouths, comes nothing devine.
And from my own?
Nothing.

There's more than meets the cursory glance.
Brokeness lies beneath this composed stance.
I have no melody, my voice was stolen from me
And day by day, year by year,
I can hear,
the deafening sound of my own silence