My Desert

I'm feeling more like these strings each day -
Underworked and under-played;
I just want a purpose here that's clear;
I'm not so good at sitting still;
I can't abate this restless will,
That seeks some motivation for my weary soul;

Am I waiting for a fiery bush,
To tell me its time to leave this desert?
Or am I just contented not to push,
And fumble each day, as it were;
I know I've got to get out of here;

There is a question that lies inside,
For which the answer gives us drive -
A reason to wake again and try: The why;
So what do I do when my hands are tied?
When it seems that everything I've tried,
Leads me down another road that's closed;

Am I waiting for a fiery bush,
To tell me its time to leave this desert?
Or am I just contented not to push,
And fumble each day, as it were;
I know I've got to get out of here;