Made This Way

I'm an empty film canister.
There is no substance to be developed.
Did I fall out or did someone take me?
Was my abduction allowed or created?

I'm a gun out of bullets.
There's no way out of this dead end war.
Did I blow out or did circumstance steal me?
Was my reduction caused or silenced?

I'm an inefficient clothespin.
There is no promise in my wooden grip.
Did I snap out or did time overuse me?
Was I fabricated wrong or unfortunate?