Don'T Mean a Damn Thing

I must have been so naive. Writing most of my other poems. Not knowing what love was or is. I still have no clue. I guess I never really had it, since apparently you can't lose it. My poems and thoughts were written from watching and looking from afar. Never having experience of my own. Then I finally has that chance and felt it. And then it was gone, vanished without a trace. Maybe I thought I knew what it was, and yet I didn't even live up to my own words. I read my forgotten pieces from so long ago. Apparently, so much that they don't mean a damn thing to me.