Made of Text

I am a purely typographical being,
I only make sense in written form,
I am only understood, when written,
I only inspire, connect and attract,
When I comprise of myself of ink and letters,
My most comfortable, my prime state,
Is when I’m made of text.

To some, this is blessing,
To me, this is a curse,
For this world we live in is not illiterate,
But they lack comprehension of reading,
Letters are just letters to them,
They lack multiple insights to a single word,
Let alone a text comprised being,
So my chances of being read,
For someone to do what I want them to do most,
To read and to truly understand me fully,
Is so little, it inspires hopelessness.

I am made of text and yet not read,
A dusty book on a shelf,
Awaiting a reader that never comes.