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Excommunication

Everything I think has been thought before, and better,
Or by someone who is famous,
And speaking feels so shameless
And I come across all bitter:
I can sneer at your clichés but I can't even write a letter
Because everything I think is junk
And doesn't really matter.

When thoughts do wriggle free, they've been so completely censored
That I might as well not bother
And just talk about Big Brother
And how someone's cousin entered;
Or (on rare occasions, when my built-in filters have relented)
I'll think "What a pointless whinge", and cringe
And feel misrepresented.

It seems a waste to have so many neurons interlinking
When the output's non-unique,
So I've decided not to speak:
I'll reserve my mouth for drinking.
Still, I'm worried that they'll realise I can answer things by blinking.
One for no and two for yes. I guess
I need to stop the thinking.