Torn

A lifetime of living among those
who claim ownership of stolen goods
as a matter of birthright
has left me confused.

What part of me ought to sympathize
with those so terrified of losing
that which is not theirs
that they would kill to protect such falsehood?

Should I feel sorry for them
in their delusions and offer sympathy,
or retch with disgust and run
in an attempt to keep their madness at bay?

Half of me tugs one way.
Half of me, the other. 
Torn to pieces and scattered;
all the pieces remain my own.