Nanette Buchanan's Page

Thug Passion

It was written on his biceps, a bold imprint, engraved on his arm.
At first sight it became a conversation piece,
Did this give this man street character or an intriguing touch of charm?

His physique was well kept, apparently time spent in the gym.
Not one he would display, no he didn’t want the attention or focus to be on him.

Thug Passion
The words dance as though they had life, a story to tell
the words were mesmerizing, hypnotizing, as if they were on sale.

“Why Thug Passion?”

The question was out, the conversation would begin.
Captivating the audience, those who would listen right to the end.

It’s a reminder of early desires in my life that nearly ended in the street.
A reminder that Thug Passion was the beginning of my self destruction.
My defeat.

He paused letting his words settle in and their curiosity build.
He understood the addiction, the need for a fix, that thug story,
but his intention was to keep it real.

It started when I was maybe nine or ten
growing up in the hood watching, what our mom’s called their men.

Those who had jobs worked hard from day to day
only to work harder the next week to get their pay.

But those who did what excited me, what I thought was fun.
Hung out all night cussing and fighting they didn’t get out of bed til’ about one.

Daily they went down to the barber shop or the corner store
checking out the girls, tight jeans, tank tops, flaunting and taunting
bellies always filled with one more.



Brothers driving fancy cars
willing to share their stash
Dressed to impress their pockets filled with fast cash

Thug Passion
My mamma named it that.
The desire to be what you ain’t just cause it’s the fashion

Thug Passion
Heading the wrong way following a path with no course or direction
Sheltered by those of little morals, nor values and no respect.
No loyalty, no longevity, no protection.

I watched the brothers until I reached my teens
Then without Momma’s knowledge or permission I became part of their negative scenes.

I ran packages, ran with the gangs,
can’t even count how many times I cut school or the things I stole
Thug Passion became a part of my being a part of my living
what I thought made me whole.

My Momma repeated her warnings
saying, “Stay away from those thugs”
She never held her tongue never stopped showering me with her loving words or hugs.

Before I could become a complete failure I dropped out of school
I learned more on the streets I was a thug and I lived by their rules.

They became my family, my passion seemed to be fulfilled
I smoked, snorted and sold cocaine just for the thrill

Got me a street girl called her my lady
She got knocked up right away
Something wasn’t right with that, something was shady.

Momma said check my so called brothers, my fellow thugs.
I followed her advice swearing. If she was dealing with one of them
they both would get plugged.

Stole the gun, stole the car, even stole his girl for the night, and took his stash.
Yeah I had her as a part of my revenge, got her pregnant
Now my son is a part of my Thug Passion Past.

Thug Passion had taken me over. My mind was controlled by the rules of the street
My rep was on the line now Me and this Nigga had beef.

I shot the nigga, beat her in the face did ten years time.
Not one of my boys, my thug family, those brothers
helped me cope with my years of dying inside.

I died each year, cause being a thug was cool on the streets
but being a Thug up in prison, only brings you heat.

My tattoo “Thug Passion” I wear daily like I wear my clothes.
That passion, a deadly desire almost made me explode.


Quiet Times -Copyright 2006
Nanette M. Buchanan