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