"I'm done" proclaimed John Doe as he
Pulled the cord on civility
Wrapped it around his neck and stepped
Off the chair into history.

His epitaph sketched onto glass
In red lipstick from god knows who
Found next to Gideon's beneath
A touch tone phone from '82.

Who knows what brought this unknown son
To the edge of mortality
In Motel 6 in Santa Fe
Around a quarter after 3.

But there he was, embracing fate
Without a single second thought
Selecting death, rejecting self
In spite of what his self had wrought

No tears were shed, nobody knew
This nameless face in calloused crowd
Whose final words in lipstick read
"I'm done, it's all too ******* loud."