More than a knife cutting me to several pieces
Chopping, grinding, and burning on a blazing fire
I am unattached when I cannot seem to tell
In the open honesty I am still in my own private box
When I am quiet, I am depressing
I am looping with glitches on wrecking rails
Don’t know when to stop without patting myself
At times of this difficult mistake I am nonchalant
I am a man of nothing, a man nothing but a skin
I kill my confidence when trapped in your disease
Heeding, I made a distance from your presence
I cannot retire from a parody of loneliness
You read me like an easy book
Much to my words I am printed with many chapters
Between the pages of my life are covered hinges
A hushed definition of who I am
2008
chester maynes 
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I really like the last three lines of this poem. It’s interesting to me how books are so full of words, yet readers find inuendos and hidden meanings, all opposite of the words. Sometimes we know each other by our words, but usually we know each other by the “between the lines.”