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Well Run Dry · Poetry Short Short ·
Organised by Anon Y Mous
Word limit 100–2000
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The Limits of My Inspiration
I find there is naught
To feed my fires, save the
Cage I built myself.

It is my job now
To end the projects of youth,
Dreams fill the trashcan.

In this moldy box
A beloved teddy bear
I'll never hug again.

All my cares are stripped,
My paths into the future
Funnel through this point.

Heat curls around bones,
Drinking strength, betraying will
As dear time slips by.

Ignored box for years,
Water crept, black fungus thrived,
Corruptive dust won.

Why should I hide it?
I but come to warn you of
Your own hidden fate.

I shall squander life
As my parents spent their own,
Dying in housetrap.
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#1 · 1
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Given who I think wrote this, you almost have to know their situation to get the full context. I think this is supposed to be a set of haiku, but a couple of the lines are off one syllable. I see the part about encountering old things you can't necessarily part with but won't ever use again, and the part about losing inspiration, but I don't see the connecting thread, unless it's just generic aging. Particularly that last line: does it refer to the items in the boxes dying through disuse and decay? That's easier to buy than it being the people themselves, though the language supports the latter. The reason it's harder to buy that way is that it makes a judgment about their lives without the evidence. It would tend to mean they didn't leave the house much, but that doesn't equate to poor quality of life, so we'd need the additional piece to get there.