Go, Poem, Go

A poem on the go…
Does it know where it is supposed to go?
…
It must do so for it is no go relying on my guidance.
…
Just go for it, poem, whatever you are up to.

I Hope the pen doesn’t run out of ink soon.
Run, pen, run.
I hope I don’t run out of gas.
Run, poet, run.

You know, this pen lives a life of its own.
Yet it bleeds to death if need be.
In turn, the paper accept what is.
That is ever requited love, that love of craft.
The love of self (the poet), the muse might very well reject.