There is nothing politically correct to confess.
Or socially maladjusted needing to be professed,
When one accepts their own aging process.
There is such undeniable joy.
And a freedom to define one's own...
Comfort zone.
Knowing 'home' is where one's heart is.
And not where one is expected to go...
After telling another what to kiss and when.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem