Hourglass Poem by Daniel Chapman

The older I get,
the louder this truth gets—
none of us knows how much sand we were given.
Not a warning.
Not a number.
Just a slow leak we pretend we can't hear.

So we take chances that scare us,
make mistakes we swear won't matter,
walk on faith even when our legs are shaking.
Sometimes we choose what's wrong
because it's the only thing that makes us feel something.

Time doesn't move—
it hunts.
Quiet, patient, undefeated.
Every second slipping past faster than I can understand,
so I'm learning the hard way
that slowing down isn't weakness—
it's survival.

Life is fragile.
Not poetic fragile—
break-in-your-hands fragile.
And nobody has time left to waste pretending they don't care.
That's why I'm writing this now,
before regret gets a louder voice than love.

Truth is…
watching time fly hurts.
I've spent so long holding other people's dreams together
that mine learned how to live without me.
Maybe I love too hard.
Maybe I give until there's nothing left.
Or maybe I'm just tired of being strong in silence.

We don't get practice runs.
No rewind.
One breath after another
until there aren't any left.
So when I say "I love you, "
I say it like it could be the last thing they remember hearing—
because one day, it will be.

Every clock mocks me—
tick…
tock…
counting down moments I'll never get back.
But until my time runs dry,
I'll keep moving,
keep loving without armor,
keep bleeding honesty into the days—

until my hourglass empties
and the world finally tells me…

stop.