Pharoahe Monch - PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

You call at dusk, your voice low and worn,
Ask how I been, how the weather’s turned.
We talk of nothing, but it still feels deep,
Like water running where roots don’t sleep.
Your silence rustles through the phone,
And I hear myself in your tone.

We’re from the same bone,
Cut by time, carved by stone.
You speak through quiet, I speak through ache,
Both of us breaking in the love we make.
Yeah, we’re from the same bone.

You’ve been walking that lonesome mile,
Carrying ghosts with a steady style.
You don’t say much, but I understand,
You built your peace with a trembling hand.
The words you hide, I’ve known too well —
That kind of pain don’t need to tell.

We’re from the same bone,
Made of weight and wanting alone.
The world hit hard, but we still stand,
Quiet hearts and weathered hands.
Yeah, we’re from the same bone.

Some nights I see you in my eyes,
Like the echo that memory ties.
Our love ain’t loud, but it’s grown slow,
Like moss on the stone, taking hold below.
And though we fail to find the phrase,
Our silence speaks in tender ways.

We’re from the same bone,
The same ache, the same unknown.
You don’t say love, but I still hear —
The way you stay, the way you’re near.
Yeah, we’re from the same bone.

From the Same Bone (II)

Final Standoff

https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/indie-500/id1045652954

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Broken Again

Pharoahe Monch

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