My Silence

I can't really speak, I can't get it right,
writing to failure each and every night.
Look in the mirror to feel only spite,
I look at you, truly, you feel my bite.

Silence is prison, but silence is me.
Forced to use words to express what I be.
You may not get my difficulty,
you may not have my deficiency.

The pain that I feel will make you kneel
to dread that comes when layers start to peel.
Down to our atoms, we no longer can heal,
but still find a way to live with the deal

Can I be content in such a state,
requiring some sort of instant escape?
Destined for each word to be a mistake,
and attempts at connection to cause only pain?