The Subconscious Basement.

face it, it's probably rubbish

There’s a name

Annoying my brain,
I can't articulate or explain.

Not yet

Driving me insane ,

However,

I’m unable to refrain

From trying to make it plain

Wanting to say it clearly,

Like summer rain

Falling

Or a bubble of champagne,

Rising.

I’m certain

It’s not Burton

Yet behind the curtain

Hanging uncertain

Over my thoughts.

The waiting is hurting.

Consternation

Is Frustration

And the knowledge that patience

Is a virtue,

And complacent

Leaves me lost in the basement

Of my subconscious.

int/31