It all started when I noticed that my watch was gone
How am I supposed to know when I should write now?
And who could take it? No one visited me lately
I'm all alone in this room, writing down my thoughts
I woke up a few days ago without a blanket or pillow
I can not work this way any longer, it's getting cold
Why would anyone need an old blanket and why mine?
The door stays closed, yet things keep on disappearing
I didn't have much to start with: some old furniture
Some personal belongings and gifts, my books are gone
I can not find any inspiration at all in this room
I'm afraid I'll wake up on the cold floor one morning
There's nothing left now, just this bed I'm sitting on
Some paper and a pen I have managed to hide away
I'm writing all this down, I have made a long list
And I'm asking you, the kind reader of these words:
Why are you stealing all these pieces of my life?