Feeling Real

This is one of my few poems. Please critique harshly and offer any advice you have, because the only thing I know about poetry is that things I have written somehow qualify.

So, here goes....

---

Today, I just stopped feeling real,
stopped feeling present.
Like my hands might sink through the desk,
no longer solid enough for it to hold them.
Like I could walk through the halls
in the slow and staring way
that people-watchers do,
and hover over shoulders,
intruding on private smiles,
And not even the sound would touch me.

The floor would have no feeling under my feet,
the air would lose its stale,
cough-inducing taste
and I could simply stand and watch
Pure unfiltered life occur.

What boundaries of space would disappear?
What quiet details could I enjoy?
How long could I stare into their eyes,
no fear of the intimate exchange we hide from?
But then again
how selfish would it be for me
To catch whispers without offering words?
To take such things while safely hidden?

No.
I think there is a special,
very human thing that happens
when we are willingly open,
Heart in hand,
standing on our toes,
waiting for the next word
to knock us down.

---

Comments are greatly appreciated!

Love,

Haley

P.S. Happy New Year!

Joeducktape wrote:
Today, I just stopped feeling real[s],[/s]
stopped feeling present.
Like my hands might sink through the desk,
no longer solid enough for it to hold them.
Like I could walk through the halls
in [s]the[/s]that slow and staring way
[s]that people-watchers do,[/s]
and hover over shoulders,
intruding on private smiles,
And not even the sound would touch me.

Mind you I have no idea what I'm doing sometimes so take this with a rather large crystal of salt.

The part I marked through I thought dragged the stanza and was a little unneeded. I didn't see its purpose.

The floor would have no feeling, under my feet[s],[/s]
the air would lose its stale,
cough-inducing taste[s],[/s]
and I could simply stand and watch,
Pure unfiltered life occur.

What boundaries of space would disappear?
What quiet details could I enjoy?
How long could I stare into their eyes,
no fear of the intimate exchange we hide from?
But then again[s],[/s]
how selfish would it be for me
To catch whispers without offering words?
To take such things while safely hidden?

No.
I think there is a special,
very human thing that happens
when we are willingly open[s],[/s].
Heart in hand,
standing on our toes,
waiting for the next word
to knock us down.

Let me think now, I liked the over all feel it had, very spooky I think. It was a little sad too. Me, I like a steady rhythm, this didn't have one, but it didn't read difficultly and it did keep itself moving. I think you could use your punctuation to really help pull the poem along. As it is the commas and stuff tended to make it harder to read. I added a few here and there for effect but it really depends on if you want the effect.

Sorry if this is of no help, good luck. Maybe Brad will wander in here sooner or later.

Adam! Thank you very much for the crit. I need all the help I can get. It's interesting to hear your comments on the mood of it, since I hadn't really thought about it. I agree with what you said about the punctuation.

*goes to change*

Oust the people-watchers line? Hmm....