Waterlogged

I am in danger of root rot, my soil is a soggy mess of incoherent poetry that does not breathe under water it just spits and sputters like a dying ocean purging itself of seedy words that never make it to poem and my stem oh how swollen she's become from all those murky sprigs who handed her a pen when it was already raining ink overhead and these leaves are no longer fanning the sun or writing of love, they're flaccid and distraught perhaps even they've grown ill from such a wee pot