Ode to my Google Ads

All that you whisper to your keyboard gets absorbed
Stuff you remembered, thought of, dictated
some ideas you put on mute.

It’s not that you’re a hypocrite
but it just gets a bit shameful sometimes,
how small those are
and leaves you starstruck how much they grow.

Words copy you.
And as your memory recalls
you keep on typing on the unknown quality of the medium you posses.

Google History comes to grab
It gets it all as if it were his. You open a tab
Where did this distorted mirror come up from
your advertised pop-up self

A toolbox of past searches, profiles
late-night virtual destinations
You stare at those things you never went out searching for;
Unable to recognize the search strings of yours

Things you refuse to call with their bare name.

You get annoyed, thinking it’s all Google’s sick perverted mind.
How to accept that the abyssal algorithm
reveals you more than memory itself.