But at what point does your own heart put its foot down?
At one point does it let out a cry for help in a voice so unrecognizable that it startles you?
When really is enough?
When will we grow tired of having the door left open, for those who come and go, if and when they please?
When will we mop up the muddy foot prints marked on the floors?
When do we replace all the echos that bounce off the walls with something a bit more cozy?
When do we toss the axe and hammer,
Throw it in an old box labeled:
"Stop chipping away at me,
I'm not your piece of art,
You can't sculpt me into what you want."
At what point does your heart refuse to be broken once again?