Written: 11-18-2002
A thug was what I wanted to be.
The thug life looked good to me.
My father and mother
wanted me to be their runner.
There I was, age 9
running drugs down the line,
watching my back, dealing drugs,
shooting heroine into my blood.
Father bought me my first gun.
I decided to have some fun.
I joined a gang and found some homies.
Finally, I wasn't lonely.
Murder was my first trial.
I thought I could do that.
I found my target late one night
and started to beat him with a bat.
Then I took out my gun.
I was having fun.
I shot him more than one time.
I enjoyed commmitting this crime.
I got into more dope.
I figured I could cope
with all the bullets and murders on my block.
All of a sudden, my brother was shot.
I shot that mother f***er.
I got him back for shooting my brother.
I ran to a far away town.
They've been searching, but I haven't been found.
Four years later, I turned 15.
I'm still running drugs down the street,
dodging bullets here and there,
and my family doesn't even care.
Shooting heroine into my blood,
I'm always on the run,
wondering when my time will end.
I'm not afraid; not one bit scared.
A thug was what I wanted to be.
The thug life looked good to me.
It all started one day when
my father and mother
wanted me to be their runner.