This is a poem I wrote about my brother who suffers from schizophrenia.

Speak for the Mute
 
He soldiers on. He's lonely. With his head down, he tends to his own needs, as subliminally instructed.
The rejected one. The brotherless son. His mother's life's test, she blames her self because, though she knows she did her best, he remains on the shelf.
The wheel that squeeks, meekly. It's plea nearly inaudible. If you had to endure what he does weekly, you'd realize his fight is astonishing.
He sees the world as a demonic thing, for thats what lives inside. He's the victim of what he's harbouring, in his mind.
For that is where the voices reside. Always there, they criticize, they torture, they belittle the man inside, divided.
One side was force fed lies in childhood. The other comes out when he smiles.
 
He made me realize that real lies don't materialize behind real eyes. A portal to a soul of enduring beauty.
Those two philosophers stones glisten. They would turn you to gold, if you only listened.
But, caught up in a world of self-loathing, one that disposes of supposedly low things, things that I like to call people, we neglect others, because we don't feel equal.
Its projection. Its the suppressed pains resurrection. Its a reflection of ill-said names, time wasted on trivial games that belittle the minds of the youth.
So many deem him insane, and nothing more. If he came to you in truth, in bitter honesty, asking for rescue, not in a trivial attempt to test, or best you, how many of us would lend a hand, and say we'll get through this day together.
If we can do that, we can get through forever.
Because of you, I've been forced to examine life, and to change for the better.
 
Now, though it rains, and it seems that things will only get better, never question the power of the determined mind burdened by the existence of the absurdist lies.
An ego trip with white collars and ties reflecting the minds of those who reside in the buildings that kill things, like dreams, and fill children who still sing with pills.
Well, my brother is a singer, and I embrace him as he is.
As a child, he was a dead ringer for a God's son.
Since then, he's had lies shovelled on him.
This man still sings, so its time for the silent world to be repremanded.
To live to correct unjust things is a life worth living.
 
Sing with him.
Sing with us.
Let us bring justice.

Written by Kevin