Writer's Block

It's ironic
For years now
I buried my feelings
Never an utterance rolled from my tongue
To shed light as to who I was
Building an insurmountable, impenetrable fortress
No one could glean what laid inside
Only the wise knew what brewed underneath
And, thankfully, they are a dying breed
I was alone where no one could hurt me
Safe within my own mind
Never prodded or nudged
Never asked to share what was mine
But the irony?
It's a dreadful reality
The ground, impregnated with the unsaid,
Mocks me through this empty page
Refusing to yield the fruits of silence
It doesn't care what I sowed
Or what I want to reap
Yet, when I close my eyes
It whispers the words
I try to say now
And when awake
It speaks a dead language
My thoughts, a loss forever