What fine art used to mean.

When i was six fine art meant chalk drawings in the driveway,
Trying hard not to smudge it so that daddy could see when he got home.
It meant cracking open a new Yogi Bear coloring book,
And the smell of a new box of Crayola Crayons.
There were those random drawings that no one but you could tell what they are,
But mommy still proudly put them up on the refrigerator door.
When I was six I didn’t care about what anyone else thought or may think about my art.
I was always proud of, what seemed to be, my big accomplishments.
But then everything changed.
I grew older.
I searched for approval from others.
Well, not anymore.
I want to have the confidence I once had.
I long for the enthusiasm and random happiness of six.
But most of all I want the innocence of six.