24?

"Twenty-four seems scary," I tell myself.

Sometimes, I tell jokes, or mostly, it was conveniently told, like how
a laugh returns and 
introduces itself as villainous friend,
but an enemy is the positivity that takes.

It is so much scarier when it visits me:
a quicksand brought by faux geniuses,

a peeking sock-made puppet, 
I am a whole drama—
a ventriloquist of his own dreams.

Delighted by my father's cake:
"Happy birthday, son!" 

I still know how to stay still 
when everybody sings me one. 

My Mom gave me bills:

Money is an angel. 

Indeed, for it lets me fly
out of the reality—

out of reality that everything 

is still made of infinite loops, 
as in manmade experiments,
and how they can be destroyed by one gentle blow.