I think God has his favourites,
Like a mother to her youngest child,
Like a bee to the prettiest flowers,
Overlooking the others.

There are the ones that parade with their heads to the sky,
While we cower and entice ourselves with their shoes.

They lunge themselves at danger,
With the assurance of no consequences.
They were given the world,
Even though it did it belong to them.
Though, they are not envied.

At last, the repercussions have arrived,
And for this they are not prepared.
We are the children of consequences,
We have thrived from our mistakes.
For there are some things that the  powerful paper can't fix.

After all, a mother can scold her child with the best intentions,
The bees feed off the flowers but promote their growth,
The dim flowers learned to survive on their own.

I feel great sympathy for those who have it all,
Must be tough not being one of God's favourites.