It burns, their eyes
Starring pointedly at the back of my head,
Burrowing into my skull.
They watch every move; record every mistake
For it to be dredged back up in years to come.
When finally I feel I can hold my head high,
They are there, shattering my pleasant delusions.
In my pain they find pleasure.
And it never ends.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem