Ever closer your cooties approach my fabric, multiplying like maggots.

Can I even muster the courage
to peek under the sheets?

Nope.

Too afraid of what I'll see...
Perhaps a mushroom shaped like me?

Nowadays your dead skin cells are my pillow.

Funny.

You're warmer dead than alive,
and your cooties still thrive.

Ever wonder who's on the other end of these poems
Are they really human? Possibly clones?
Maybe a bunch of chimps in a dank room typing away
And after months of randomness, they conjure something clever to say
Some people are probably just busy, others insecure
That's one weakness every poet can relate to, I'm sure
But for a bunch of lonely souls, just longing to feel connected
It's amazing how many times I've reached out, only to be rejected
This place, this space, some people just seem so hollow
And you wonder to yourself,
do I even want to be followed?