There's No Room

There's no room for this ---
Eggshells of progress-success-happiness leave no room for idle pecking.
We're all inside some shell or another.
None of them leave any room for half-hearted attempts.
They require commoving.
Earnest.
There's no room for this---
We're chirping our beaks and flexing our featherless wings, Yearning
In our shells of progress-success-happiness.
Our fragile white ellipses, begging to be broken.
Birdies embryonic at worst.
Best: nascent.
There's no room for this---
Swimming in filmy mirages of yolk sac disallows feeble breaststrokes.
The membrane of a foggy mirror distorts our tries, but -
how can birds fly the nest if they're eggshelled?
Despite your membranic charicatures,
Keep trying.
There's no room for this---
Look at your-bird-self: translucent, filmy, wet, runtish. Look away.
Take your beak. It is diamond hard, no matter how small.
Know your hard beak, really own it.
Touch it to that yolk sac.
Pierce.
There's no room for this---
Those self-defamations gone with the yolk sac, continue.
Peck the shell purposely. Now cracks vein your sac-less surroundings.
Ruffle your wormy naked wings, blink your opaque red-lined eyelids.
Thrust eagerly, beak up. Harder now.
Crackle.
There's no room for this---
Shell is cracked; the first window of shell-less-ness is always hardest.
It mobilizes the shell's destruction:
a fulcrum of sorts speeding your liberation, leading to bigger windows.
Your beak breathes objective air at last.
Sigh.
There's no room for this---
With those breaths, you struggle with increased freneticism.
There's no room for me here. There's no room for you in the shell.
Your erstwhile silent chirps are no longer voiceless.
Head is shell-less.
Free.
There's no room for this---
Wriggling. Squirming. Shifting your way through those brittle edges.
The shell shatters, finally giving. You spread your wings.
There was no room for you in there.
You're in that nest now. You
Fly.