Between the lines

It is an art. Ironically, it sure is an art.
The ability to draw a page
Around a single word, or an act,
draw lines on it, fill them up with
deep dark strokes and read them.
An obsession it is. To read and reread.
Till the lines become dark enough
to spread grey all around.
Till they run deep enough
to never repair the scar.
Grey hues, scars, tatters.
They haunt.
Pages pile up. Higher and higher.
Shoulders lock in tighter knots,
smiles become strained.
In pursuit of a different art,
one that blurs and numbs sooner
I gather the highest degrees possible
of reading between the lines.