Jessie is seventeen.
She's still in school.
Her prospects are good, her future looks bright.
She likes to act cool,
As long as she deceives her feelings inside.
Jessie is seventeen.
She makes music.
It takes the strain of the words she's victim of.
She writes about conflict,
To try to make her life imaginary, her life without love.
Jessie is seventeen.
She sits at her piano.
Moving her hands along the ivory keys, keeping inspired.
She sometimes draws an arrow,
Allowing her fingers to slice and cut on the wire.
Jessie is seventeen.
She likes the smell of home baking.
If you cut your grass, she compliments the fresh scent.
She finds perfumes totally breathtaking,
When eating oranges, she takes in the aroma of each segment.
Jessie is seventeen.
She has sensitive teeth.
Ice cream is too cold, it sends up a pain.
She worries about what lies beneath,
And prefers it if the taste isn't too plain.
Jessie is seventeen.
She sees a lot.
For someone so young, she's been witness to much.
She got herself caught on a dodgy plot,
And uses her body, for her mind, as a crutch.
Jessie was seventeen.
She wanted to learn.
Her prospects were good, her future is bright.
Jessie was cool.
She managed to decieve her feeling inside.
Jessie was seventeen.
She felt things inside.
Society heard her cries,
But did not listen to her when she tried.
Now Jessie has left for a better life.
Where she'll no longer need to hide.
Yes, that's right, Jessie died.