Conflicting Traditions

My boisterous Moscow mind, 
Has a meticulous D.C. side. 
I hear the whispers and the chuckles, 
I close my mouth and bite my tongue. 
I understand I can't express myself properly, 
I cannot correlate an English word to its definition to make sense. 

My infallible Istra heart has lived as such, 
But has shown a more belligerent American touch. 
As my frustration mounts, 
My tongue is losing all discipline. 
Yet I sit here and try to keep myself composed, 
For it is between me and God when I lay my head down on my pillow.