The poem begins with a funny, slightly grim image: tiny creatures eating the speaker's pages as the words are still being written. The joke is that readers, or at least hungry bugs, can't wait for publication. The made-up word "Prehumously" plays on "posthumously," suggesting the speaker is being consumed before death, or before being recognized at all. It's a wry way of admitting that writing feels fragile and unrewarded.
Then the tone turns more serious. The line about perfection being easier than being human feels like the heart of the poem. Perfection is a technical problem you can work at; being human is messy and can't be solved. The final lines show the speaker's "trouble": an obsession with finding love's algorithm and coding consciousness, as if feelings could be reduced to rules. The mood is dry, self-mocking, and a little lonely. The speaker seems aware that chasing formulas for love may be a way of avoiding the harder, more human work of living it.