Buttery Dreams Poem by Peter Black

Inside every person is something to love,
But at this point when life is piled on,
Loaded up slimy—and the yarn
Of false talk makes me cower away,
While I feel crowded all around;
I am sick, being all jammed up
Twisted in rings and crammed shut,
Smoked to my lungs, cramped; then undone,
Down to my sinews for everyone to see,
My fibers and veins stretched out thread—breathe,
The dust of spaces interned:
A crevice, a prison cell, a scene,
Where the walls enclose Styrofoam beams;
On the outside people reach in,
Take my butter to make their bread grease,
Taste better and dine on my dreams.