herein I tell the tale of how "it's" and "its" entered into a suicide pact, and how I counselled them, and saved them from certain death

1
in fair paper and screens  
where our sins mostly lie
there were born two asterik-crossed lovers:
it's and its
and though they did not die
they did marry
and they begot a child
the second it's  -
though it has a life of its own

2
But in the hands of so many
were "it's" and "its" abused,
it was no longer funny
One said: *"The dog missed it's master"
(and people wondered if the dog is the master)
and another advised: "Seize the bull by it's horns"
and while many stood distracted by the meaning
the bull ****** its horns deep into their posteriors

And so were "it's" and "its" driven to woe
that they made a suicide pact
and I was commissioned to counsel them:
"Listen, it's the age of the
you're for your
there for their
(and vice-versa)
and people are no longer who but that;
an age in which people think an apple
is something you poke at"

And thus were it's and its consoled
and in my wisdom of the ages, I continued:
"Besides you've got your baby it's (it has) to think of"

3
And so it is I saved "it's" and the "its"
for our noble English Language,
turned comic what would have been tragic -
but what matters it anyway
when people still mess up the two
just as we mess up the earth
and misuse beliefs and religion

so I brought my writer wife
(prominently pregnant)
to the hospital
and on her bed, she screamed:
"weren't" "hasn't" "couldn't" "shan't"
"aint" "hadn't" "you're" "isn't"
"aren't" "didn't" "wasn't"
"who's?" "what's?" "he's" "she's"

The doctors were confounded
and they turned to me and they said:
"What the hell is she doing?"

And I replied with double speed
and a violent sense of urgency:
*"Don't you know?
She's having contractions -
she's a writer"

I wrote a book..
But it's half a page,
I wrote a poem
But all it really says is;
'I'm in love'

But i won't say a word..
I'll just write words down,
I'm close to keeping you
In my life for a little longer now

And its gonna be the last day I'm 16,
Its gonna be the best night of my life
Cause if its gonna be the last day I'm 16,
I want your taste of what true lust is, so just close your eyes

And i will.. I'll make it hot,
As the bass drops,
I'll play a song that makes your heart stop, as i lean in..

Cause theres something about you..
Theres just something about you
And i know i can't lose you,
If you're someone else's to lose..
But there's something about us
That leaves me breathless and confused
Theres something about the way i know you want me too

I'll make it hot,
cause this could be love..
I wanna kiss you bad but you make my heart stop..
And now i give in

Cause there's so much to lose,
You're so beautiful..
And theres so much to lose
When you're the one I'm pouring my heart to
So don't spill my heart's ink,
Cause theres still one more last thing
Left to say,
Won't you tell me that I'm pretty..
Or tell me you can't love me
But you'll kiss me anyway..

If you ever fall in love with a writer,
Your days will be musical
The nights will have their own song
Not anymore will you look at things as regular-
The trees will seem to give you more than just shade,
The sunlight will trickle down on your skin
Bouncing off the window pane
The wind will do a waltz through your hair
Your eyes will carry the universe in them
All the things will not be the same again.

If you ever fall in love with a writer
I don’t promise that it will be easy
For, writers can be insane sometimes
What good is love if you don’t jump off sanity?
They are forgettful. Terribly so.
They will not remember anniversaries
Or to buy tickets for your favourite show
But, they will never forget how you smell after a bath,
The colour of your eyes,
Thoughts of you will never escape their mind.

Writers can be clumsy,
They will trip over their own shabby scattered notes,
Spill the ink onto a fresh piece of poem
But, the way their fingers will trace stories on your bare skin,
And how they will carefully settle
The baby hair on your forehead before kissing,
Will seem to you as their finest work.

If you ever fall in love with a writer,
They will never tell you how much
They love you back until,
Your absence makes it hard for them to breathe,
Makes you more of necessity.
They will, then, hold your hand,
Close their eyes
And cry like they have already lost you;
The tears will spread over their face
Like delicate words on paper,
With each one rolling down their cheek
Their clutch of you will grow tighter.
It is when they open their eyes,
Look at you as a miracle in disguise,
That each part of their soul will sing
To you their love
And the million “I love yous” you wrote to them
Will not be enough.

If you ever fall in love with a writer,
Kiss them in the stormy rain,
Drive them to a distant place
They have never been to,
And watch carefully their expressions change,
Build them sand castles
And let the tides wash it away,
Don’t buy them flowers
On Valentine’s day.

For every blown out candle,
every Mazel Tov,
every turn of the tassel,
you gift-wrap what a writer dreads most: blank pages.
It’s never a notebook we need.
If we have a story to tell,
an idea carbonating past the brim of us,
we will write it on our arms, thighs, any bare meadow of skin.
In the absence of pens,
we will repeat our lines deliriously like the telephone number
of a parting stranger
until we become the craziest one on the subway.

If you really love a writer,
find a gravestone of someone who shares their name and take them to it.
When her door is plastered with an eviction notice, do not offer your home.
Say I Love You, then call her the wrong name.
If you really love a writer,
bury them in all your awful and watch as they scrawl their way out.

If you sincerely love a writer,
They will carry you inside them
Till you are all they remain,
Hold you like the glint in their eyes
If a writer falls in love with you,
You can never die.