I want to be six again.
I want to go to McDonald's and think it's the best place in the world 
to eat.
I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and make waves 
with rocks.
I want to think M&Ms are better than money 'cause you can eat 
them.
I want to play kickball during recess.
I want to stay up on Christmas Eve waiting to hear Santa and 
Rudolph on the roof.
I long for the days when life was simpler, when all you knew were 
your colors, the addition tables, and simple nursery rhymes, but it 
didn't bother you because you didn't know what you didn't know, 
and you didn't care.
I want to go to school and have milk and cookies time, snack time, 
recess, gym, and field trips.
I want to be happy because I don't know what should make me 
upset.
I want to think the world is fair, and everyone in it is honest and 
good.
I want to think Mommy and Daddy will always be there, and people 
only die on TV and in the movies.
I want to be six again.
I want to be oblivious to the complexities of life, and be overly 
excited by little things, like ice water.
I want television to be something I watch for fun, not something I 
use for escape from the things I should be doing.
I want to live knowing the little things I find exciting will always 
make me as happy as when I first learned them.
I want to be six again.
I don't want to see the world as a whole, but rather be aware of 
only those things that directly concern me.
I want to be naive enough to think that if I'm happy, so is everyone 
else.
I want to walk down the beach and think only of the sand beneath 
my feet, and the possibility of finding that blue piece of sea glass 
I'm looking for.
I want to spend my afternoons climbing trees and riding my bike, 
and letting the grownups worry about time, the dentist, and how to 
find the money to fix the car.
I want to wonder what I'll do when I grow up, not worry what I'll do 
if this doesn't work out, or how I'll ever escape this crummy job.
I want to have a dog I can talk to, or if I can't have a dog, this
caterpillar will do.
I want that time back.  I want to use it now as an escape.  So that 
when my computer crashes, and I have a mountain of paperwork, 
a screaming boss, a depressed spouse, three weeks 'till payday, 11 
months 'till vacation, a prostate exam at 6 P.M., and second 
thoughts about so many things, I can travel back and build a 
snowman without thinking about anything except whether the 
snow sticks together, and what can I possibly use for the
snowman's mouth.
I want to be six again.