Haha!
Poems!

Have no clue where to start and this is great!

I can't say I understand much here. The haiku was funny, and I'm guessing that by pairing the two poems as a single entry, that the second is from the perspective of the first one's subject. It's got some ridiculous humor to it, but more situational. I don't see an actual joke. Not sure if I'm suppose to get something out of how it kind of adopts a rhyme scheme at the end.

The second one feels more like someone speaking a story. Then it struck me how much free verse ends up sounding just like a greentext story, at least when it's not very abstract.

Even allowing for female rhyme, the meter has a few inconsistencies to it. I like the theme, but there's a fine line between a hoarder and a collector, I guess. I'm not sure that's even what's gong on here, particularly because of the mention of unread books. A hoarder would be someone who had finished them and had no intention of reading them again, but still couldn't bring himself to get rid of them. This feels more like an exhortation to get outside, away from things that tend to keep someone cooped up. Which can be a fine sentiment, depending on the person, though it makes me wonder whether this is related to shelter at home culture, where the person is getting stir crazy, and any chance to go outside would be preferable.

There are enough times poetry, even in the regular writing events, has had a gimmick to it that I'm now conditioned to look for reasons when I see typos, like the "ripe me to shreds" here. It immediately has me trying o find other typos to see if the extra or missing letters are some part of a hidden code.

I don't know what t make of the structure here. Only the odd stanzas have a simple rhyme scheme, and there isn't a regular rhythm.

I kind of feel like I lack the context to understand the narrative. The writer speaks to helping people for the wrong reasons, but then that those he's helped haven't actually progressed, and that's the piece I'm missing. Why not? Was he doing a halfhearted job just because he wanted to seem like an authority figure more than actually helping? Did he give bad advice because he didn't know what he was talking about? Was he actually helpful, but he didn't follow up with anyone to make sure they understood what he was saying? I'm not sure exactly what he's upset about.

There's one thing that poetry and flash fiction can do very well, and that's provide a nice crystallization of a moment in time that doesn't necessarily have earth-shattering consequences, but that really puts the reader in the frame of mind of what experiencing it is like. That's what this poem does for me. I've been there, and this nicely captures the feeling of sitting there tearing your hair out over being unable to write a single inspired thing, and then suddenly the perfect one dawns on you.

As to your structural decisions, I do think each line stops at a natural pause, and each stanza is a complete thought, but I don't think there's any implied significance to the number of lines in each.

It also seems like I'm the only consistent audience for either the poetry rounds or the She-Ra ones.

When I've accumulated stuff
That fills my living space,
It's left for me to make a choice,
To clear it out, or face
A Mappined life inside the cages
Formed by all my prior stages.

As we safely landed
They congratulated me
And asked me how I thought so quick
Of an idea to save the day:
"It was a total ass-pull," I reply.

No inspiration,
forced against blank page or screen
like rusted bolt without a breaker bar...
Perhaps it's time for a break.

When I don't know where to begin
I browse the shelves for roasted bean,
Fill grinder set to coarse, half-fill filter,
Then let hot water flow; ah, fresh dark brew!