southern comfort. something that is synonymous iwth fattening food, liquor, friends, and a complete disregard of health. treasured by nastalgic old folks, disgusting to young parents. comfor can be anywhere. in the south, in a chair, with a book, in your “comfort zone”. is comfort the goal here? how much can get done in comfort?
A night of crying, releasing tension, and mourning over a missing friend. They won’t be missing for long, but they will be missing in many ways. Will I see him again? Will I get to be with him ever again? Comfort…a soft word or an I love you will do.
Watching my favorite show or movie, or reading a good book on a cold, dark, rainy day, while drinking a hot cup of hot chocolate, and snuggling under a warm blanket is the center of my comfort zone. Not sleeping in my bed for a whole day, letting it have time to cool off, and then falling asleep on the cold pillow, under the cold blankets, and feeling it heat up as I drift to sleep. Tuning out the world with music and just relaxing to the chords and the beat. That’s what I call comfort.
that seems to be what we sacrifice, musicians. comfort. we defy all systems, rebel any norms. and we’re okay with it. what’s odd is when real life happens. the stuff that happens to everyone else. we don’t expect those things to happen to us. but, inevitably, it comes to remind us that no matter how crazy we are the cycle of things goes on, nonchalant, completely oblivious to our improvised, spontaneous methods. and it will take us with it, no matter how out of it we seem. no matter how unprepared or stubborn or opposed we are. we are not exempted. i suppose any of this could be said for any type of artist. and perhaps people besides us. whatever the case, in the end we know how crazy we are, and how insane it is to live this way. and its nice to know that there are others to relate to. its comfort to be around your own kind. especially when we make more of a mess of this thing than already has been made when we come along : )
Comfort is the peace you feel in pain. Its the warm touch amidst an icy storm. Its the hand that reaches out to you after a painful trial. It soothes your soul in a way that nothing else could. It is the little bit of love you need in the middle of hate.
i swore i found comfort in you,
swore i loved you
but through it all
all were lust
i found myself in a grind
not knowing who i am
but feeling it inside
now that i crawled out of the closet
there is nothing to be scared of
the ridicule will come
but i deserve it
and i will rise above it
J.P. Henderhorff was old. But, more importantly, he was comfortable. He had just settled into to the large blue recliner that conformed so perfectly with his angular, bent frame, the lovely blue chair that was a gift from his grandchildren, when the fire alarm for the building went off. It was just then that J.P. noticed his apartment was opaque, that there was indeed cloud shapes floating past the insides of his windows that wasn’t smoke coming from the oven, that his wife hadn’t forgotten about a tray of sweets that was burning, because he was constantly forgetting that his wife had been dead for four years. Fell down the stairs on her way up from grocery shopping. Slipped on a slimy new egg she had dropped. J.P. let out an old man’s “Oh!”, the kind of sound flour makes when you pour milk into it, the sound of things being both dry and wet simultaneously, and he rose slowly from his chair, wincing in pain when both of his knees popped. Pop, pop, pain. J.P. stared at the door in front of him, saw the smoke sneaking through the bottom now in little billowy puffs. And he thought about the stairs. All those God damn stairs he was going to have to walk down. Who says you can’t use an elevator in a fire, he thought. Who the hell says. But the thought of the stairs again exhausted him. There was no way an old man such as him was going to be able to make it down eleven flights of stairs, his knees popping painfully all the way down. He bent his knees slightly at this, and allowed gravity to take over, fell backward back into the chair, reassumed his comfortable position. He nestled in and closed his eyes, breathed in deep through his nose and smiled in anticipation of the baked goods his wife would soon be waddling out him, her asking who was hungry while the platter smoked between the mittens protecting her fingers.
i’m wearing bell bottom jeans just three sizes too tight and my bra is like my mama trying to push up all thats right now i’m feeling like there’s a hole in my stomach cause it’s been four days two years since i’ve eaten any sugar baby’s telling me i aint skinny or fine and divided into two i can’t pick my mind or my body but well bight it. i’m comfortable.
pillows dressed in silk chickes that slide with the mentality of ease striding the sliding glass doors that reflect a pure complexion of the life that slipped away, the stream on conciousness is not always a stream, sometimes it feels a lot more like rapids. i have nothing left to say/
Comfort. The comfort of home and comfort food. Yum. Food. Comfort food. What’s comfort food to you? To me it’s cornbread and chili, zucchini chowder, or roast beef and mashed potatoes with gravy. Or cheesy potatoes. Or baked potatoes. A lot of potatoes, huh?
one of my favourite comfort foods is dessert. A warm chocolate pudding with butterscotch sauce, to be exact. It just reminds me of home and is best eaten during wintertime when its cold outside. I love to curl up in front of my tv and eat this while reminiscing about home.
It was snowing again.
Oftentimes it would never stop. Opening doors allowed bursts of wind, flurries of tiny stars whistling into the house. Years like these, when snow had been falling long past the point of whimsy, there wasn’t anything you could do but put up with it. Not that putting up with it was all bad; snow meant warmth, for those who could afford it.
The comfort of my bed when I lie in it after a long, hard day’s work. The feel of the pillows and the cold sheets…the way my cat comes to me and purrs as she also makes herself comfortable.
That warm fuzzy glow you get all over and inside when someone comforts you. Shoos all the nasty things away and casts a blanket as a canopy over all the hurt and the cold, and cosies it into warmth until everything is cotton-soft again, no spindles to prick fingers on, no thorns, just softness and the quiet cooing of a heart in peaceful repose.
At that moment, I was full of comfort. The warm and strong embrace of my lovely wife made me feel safe and calm. As the fire roared I remembered I was still at home, not in that dream state. That nightmare. I was glad I was back to reality, safe in my home with my loving family whom I would never forget.
I lull myself into comfort all the time, even when I know it is folly. I pass the days like water tumbling from the cataracts of the river, powering my days to simply go down. Because ultimately we all go down and in the end, this is what I take comfort in. My life flows from start to finish, and in the end, when I finally taste the still waters of the ocean, I cease to be me and begin to be us.
Comfort is the baby milk scent of your skin, 8 pillows like a fort around my bed, Snickers sweetness at the back of my throat, soft cashmere against my skin, long hot acupuncturesque droplets of shower water, my favourite artists humming my favourite melodies on my ear like lullabies, and this zone where I’m at and not both at the same time.
Comfort is the baby milk scent of your skin, 8 pillows like a fort around my bed, Snickers sweetness at the back of my throat, soft cashmere against my skin, long hot acupuncturesque droplets of shower water, my favourite artists humming my favourite melodies on my ear like lullabies, and this zone where I’m in and out both at the same time.
Something that I search for but don’t find. My father gave it to me, but he’s gone, so I have to find comfort within myself. I’m trying. I’m really, really trying, but I need help.
Imagine the warm breath of a lover on your cheek, the comfort of your father’s hand, the all embracing heat of your mother’s hug. Imagine that then imagine never being able to feel.Anything.
I comfort my dog, i know what to comfort. Comfort people. Why cant we all comfort each other. I want to comfort my friends. I Like to comfort . Why im i writing the word comfort so many times. Comfort is getting old. Why did you guys give me comfort, not dog or anything else but comfort. Is this world about comfort or something like that. My comfort sentence shall finish right now.
I want to be in my warm bed, all tucked in like I used to be. The sun pouring on my face on a Saturday morning, happy because I knew I wouldn’t have to go to school today. My room isn’t a disaster, it’s clean because my mom is tired of a messy home. I know she’s right in the next room. I’m comforted by the though.
I am trying to stretch my comfort zone. There are times I want to crawl back into my bed, cover my head under the sheets and remain securely in my comfort zone. But where is the growth in that?
I miss my mother’s comfort. That is the thing I miss most about my mom, the option of getting in bed with her and smelling her comforting smell and being next to the woman who carried me for 9 months. A mother’s comfort is like no other. I hope my kids feels the same way about me and will miss my comfort when I am gone, hopefully after they are. I love my mom.
Pillows give people comfort. They are a great shoulder to cry one, and they help you sleep. I don’t know why the comforter is called the comforter, I think that should be the name for the pillow. The pillow gives the better comfort.
Why I am I so afraid to leave my comfort zone? I really need to just start putting myself out there more. If I had just asked him to dance, just talked to him, I wouldn’t have been so disappointed. But I didn’t, because I was too comfortable.
What if you ate comfort food while nestled in the wool nap inside pink bedroom slippers? You’d be really tiny, eating the smallest little pot of custard. And you’d be listening to someone at the sink preparing you a nice warm and not too wet cloth to wipe your mouth with.
I feel comfort when my family is here.
I feel comfort when I see my horses run free.
I feel comfort when I see my husband smile.
I feel comfort when people look at life in a way that opens their souls.
I feel comfort when everything makes sense and is going ok.
Comfort is a way of life….
I picked up a bowl of soup from the local market that day, hat and gloves still on my head and hands. It was a long, long day at work, let me tell you. But I felt like soup, the comfort food, would cheer me up. Then I read about a teen’s suicide in the local paper because pf bullying. I cried and left a pot of soup at the family’s doorstep, feeling that it was the right thing to do.
comfort is when your are pleased about the environment arround yourself. It is how you sit and feel about yourselv. Comfort i when you is a physical feeling.
The soft white of my pillow was the only thing that got me to sleep on that horrible horrible night. It is something I will never forget, and I am ever thankful for that sweet comfort given to me by my favorite pillow.
in your arms as i cuddle into your sweet arms and fell the days glide aeway the haet of your soft sin and your subtle breath as you finally fall to sleep so i can lie easy at rest with my thoughts with you there nest to me. feeling as one in two, and two in one.
southern comfort. something that is synonymous iwth fattening food, liquor, friends, and a complete disregard of health. treasured by nastalgic old folks, disgusting to young parents. comfor can be anywhere. in the south, in a chair, with a book, in your “comfort zone”. is comfort the goal here? how much can get done in comfort?
A night of crying, releasing tension, and mourning over a missing friend. They won’t be missing for long, but they will be missing in many ways. Will I see him again? Will I get to be with him ever again? Comfort…a soft word or an I love you will do.
Watching my favorite show or movie, or reading a good book on a cold, dark, rainy day, while drinking a hot cup of hot chocolate, and snuggling under a warm blanket is the center of my comfort zone. Not sleeping in my bed for a whole day, letting it have time to cool off, and then falling asleep on the cold pillow, under the cold blankets, and feeling it heat up as I drift to sleep. Tuning out the world with music and just relaxing to the chords and the beat. That’s what I call comfort.
that seems to be what we sacrifice, musicians. comfort. we defy all systems, rebel any norms. and we’re okay with it. what’s odd is when real life happens. the stuff that happens to everyone else. we don’t expect those things to happen to us. but, inevitably, it comes to remind us that no matter how crazy we are the cycle of things goes on, nonchalant, completely oblivious to our improvised, spontaneous methods. and it will take us with it, no matter how out of it we seem. no matter how unprepared or stubborn or opposed we are. we are not exempted. i suppose any of this could be said for any type of artist. and perhaps people besides us. whatever the case, in the end we know how crazy we are, and how insane it is to live this way. and its nice to know that there are others to relate to. its comfort to be around your own kind. especially when we make more of a mess of this thing than already has been made when we come along : )
Comfort is the peace you feel in pain. Its the warm touch amidst an icy storm. Its the hand that reaches out to you after a painful trial. It soothes your soul in a way that nothing else could. It is the little bit of love you need in the middle of hate.
i swore i found comfort in you,
swore i loved you
but through it all
all were lust
i found myself in a grind
not knowing who i am
but feeling it inside
now that i crawled out of the closet
there is nothing to be scared of
the ridicule will come
but i deserve it
and i will rise above it
J.P. Henderhorff was old. But, more importantly, he was comfortable. He had just settled into to the large blue recliner that conformed so perfectly with his angular, bent frame, the lovely blue chair that was a gift from his grandchildren, when the fire alarm for the building went off. It was just then that J.P. noticed his apartment was opaque, that there was indeed cloud shapes floating past the insides of his windows that wasn’t smoke coming from the oven, that his wife hadn’t forgotten about a tray of sweets that was burning, because he was constantly forgetting that his wife had been dead for four years. Fell down the stairs on her way up from grocery shopping. Slipped on a slimy new egg she had dropped. J.P. let out an old man’s “Oh!”, the kind of sound flour makes when you pour milk into it, the sound of things being both dry and wet simultaneously, and he rose slowly from his chair, wincing in pain when both of his knees popped. Pop, pop, pain. J.P. stared at the door in front of him, saw the smoke sneaking through the bottom now in little billowy puffs. And he thought about the stairs. All those God damn stairs he was going to have to walk down. Who says you can’t use an elevator in a fire, he thought. Who the hell says. But the thought of the stairs again exhausted him. There was no way an old man such as him was going to be able to make it down eleven flights of stairs, his knees popping painfully all the way down. He bent his knees slightly at this, and allowed gravity to take over, fell backward back into the chair, reassumed his comfortable position. He nestled in and closed his eyes, breathed in deep through his nose and smiled in anticipation of the baked goods his wife would soon be waddling out him, her asking who was hungry while the platter smoked between the mittens protecting her fingers.
i’m wearing bell bottom jeans just three sizes too tight and my bra is like my mama trying to push up all thats right now i’m feeling like there’s a hole in my stomach cause it’s been four days two years since i’ve eaten any sugar baby’s telling me i aint skinny or fine and divided into two i can’t pick my mind or my body but well bight it. i’m comfortable.
pillows dressed in silk chickes that slide with the mentality of ease striding the sliding glass doors that reflect a pure complexion of the life that slipped away, the stream on conciousness is not always a stream, sometimes it feels a lot more like rapids. i have nothing left to say/
Comfort. The comfort of home and comfort food. Yum. Food. Comfort food. What’s comfort food to you? To me it’s cornbread and chili, zucchini chowder, or roast beef and mashed potatoes with gravy. Or cheesy potatoes. Or baked potatoes. A lot of potatoes, huh?
one of my favourite comfort foods is dessert. A warm chocolate pudding with butterscotch sauce, to be exact. It just reminds me of home and is best eaten during wintertime when its cold outside. I love to curl up in front of my tv and eat this while reminiscing about home.
Mashed potatoes with gravy, Stephanie’s quilt, chocolate brownie, mother’s arms, and children’s love
It was snowing again.
Oftentimes it would never stop. Opening doors allowed bursts of wind, flurries of tiny stars whistling into the house. Years like these, when snow had been falling long past the point of whimsy, there wasn’t anything you could do but put up with it. Not that putting up with it was all bad; snow meant warmth, for those who could afford it.
The comfort of my bed when I lie in it after a long, hard day’s work. The feel of the pillows and the cold sheets…the way my cat comes to me and purrs as she also makes herself comfortable.
That warm fuzzy glow you get all over and inside when someone comforts you. Shoos all the nasty things away and casts a blanket as a canopy over all the hurt and the cold, and cosies it into warmth until everything is cotton-soft again, no spindles to prick fingers on, no thorns, just softness and the quiet cooing of a heart in peaceful repose.
At that moment, I was full of comfort. The warm and strong embrace of my lovely wife made me feel safe and calm. As the fire roared I remembered I was still at home, not in that dream state. That nightmare. I was glad I was back to reality, safe in my home with my loving family whom I would never forget.
I lull myself into comfort all the time, even when I know it is folly. I pass the days like water tumbling from the cataracts of the river, powering my days to simply go down. Because ultimately we all go down and in the end, this is what I take comfort in. My life flows from start to finish, and in the end, when I finally taste the still waters of the ocean, I cease to be me and begin to be us.
Comfort is the baby milk scent of your skin, 8 pillows like a fort around my bed, Snickers sweetness at the back of my throat, soft cashmere against my skin, long hot acupuncturesque droplets of shower water, my favourite artists humming my favourite melodies on my ear like lullabies, and this zone where I’m at and not both at the same time.
Today, comfort is what lies at the bottom of a litre of vanilla ice-cream. Weight is the demon that will taunt me tomorrow.
Comfort is the baby milk scent of your skin, 8 pillows like a fort around my bed, Snickers sweetness at the back of my throat, soft cashmere against my skin, long hot acupuncturesque droplets of shower water, my favourite artists humming my favourite melodies on my ear like lullabies, and this zone where I’m in and out both at the same time.
Something that I search for but don’t find. My father gave it to me, but he’s gone, so I have to find comfort within myself. I’m trying. I’m really, really trying, but I need help.
warm and comfortable, food, duvets, bed, baby, boyfriend, sleep,love, lust, cuddles, lazy days.thats all.
Imagine the warm breath of a lover on your cheek, the comfort of your father’s hand, the all embracing heat of your mother’s hug. Imagine that then imagine never being able to feel.Anything.
Its really goot thing. I’m feeling confortable when i’m with my crush. I don’t care what we are doing.
I comfort my dog, i know what to comfort. Comfort people. Why cant we all comfort each other. I want to comfort my friends. I Like to comfort . Why im i writing the word comfort so many times. Comfort is getting old. Why did you guys give me comfort, not dog or anything else but comfort. Is this world about comfort or something like that. My comfort sentence shall finish right now.
I want to be in my warm bed, all tucked in like I used to be. The sun pouring on my face on a Saturday morning, happy because I knew I wouldn’t have to go to school today. My room isn’t a disaster, it’s clean because my mom is tired of a messy home. I know she’s right in the next room. I’m comforted by the though.
I am trying to stretch my comfort zone. There are times I want to crawl back into my bed, cover my head under the sheets and remain securely in my comfort zone. But where is the growth in that?
I miss my mother’s comfort. That is the thing I miss most about my mom, the option of getting in bed with her and smelling her comforting smell and being next to the woman who carried me for 9 months. A mother’s comfort is like no other. I hope my kids feels the same way about me and will miss my comfort when I am gone, hopefully after they are. I love my mom.
Pillows give people comfort. They are a great shoulder to cry one, and they help you sleep. I don’t know why the comforter is called the comforter, I think that should be the name for the pillow. The pillow gives the better comfort.
As I sit in the comfort of my warm home, I think of all the people in the world who don’t have the heat and luxury of a home such as mine.
Why I am I so afraid to leave my comfort zone? I really need to just start putting myself out there more. If I had just asked him to dance, just talked to him, I wouldn’t have been so disappointed. But I didn’t, because I was too comfortable.
What if you ate comfort food while nestled in the wool nap inside pink bedroom slippers? You’d be really tiny, eating the smallest little pot of custard. And you’d be listening to someone at the sink preparing you a nice warm and not too wet cloth to wipe your mouth with.
I feel comfort when my family is here.
I feel comfort when I see my horses run free.
I feel comfort when I see my husband smile.
I feel comfort when people look at life in a way that opens their souls.
I feel comfort when everything makes sense and is going ok.
Comfort is a way of life….
I picked up a bowl of soup from the local market that day, hat and gloves still on my head and hands. It was a long, long day at work, let me tell you. But I felt like soup, the comfort food, would cheer me up. Then I read about a teen’s suicide in the local paper because pf bullying. I cried and left a pot of soup at the family’s doorstep, feeling that it was the right thing to do.
hot chocolate. family. rainy days in bed. down comforters. sun bathing. tissues. sweaters.
comfort is when your are pleased about the environment arround yourself. It is how you sit and feel about yourselv. Comfort i when you is a physical feeling.
I lay in your arms, deep in the night, and away from my sorrows. They can all wait till light.
The soft white of my pillow was the only thing that got me to sleep on that horrible horrible night. It is something I will never forget, and I am ever thankful for that sweet comfort given to me by my favorite pillow.
in your arms as i cuddle into your sweet arms and fell the days glide aeway the haet of your soft sin and your subtle breath as you finally fall to sleep so i can lie easy at rest with my thoughts with you there nest to me. feeling as one in two, and two in one.
Lying on my back, I feel cozy in the comfort of my mother’s knitted blanket. It’s warm, soft and the preferred spot to be joined by my bathing cat.