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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

Free online greeting card maker or poetry art generator. Create free custom printable greeting cards or art from photos and text online. Use PoetrySoup's free online software to make greeting cards from poems, quotes, or your own words. Generate memes, cards, or poetry art for any occasion; weddings, anniversaries, holidays, etc (See examples here). Make a card to show your loved one how special they are to you. Once you make a card, you can email it, download it, or share it with others on your favorite social network site like Facebook. Also, you can create shareable and downloadable cards from poetry on PoetrySoup. Use our poetry search engine to find the perfect poem, and then click the camera icon to create the card or art.

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The train station was mostly empty. The wooden bench was hard and uncomfortable; I had no place else to sleep. A rolled up newspaper was the best pillow I could find. An old, worn out lady and her teenage son sat in the row of seats facing my bench. He sat staring at me, while his muscles twitched, his face contorted and grunt sounds emitted from his throat. "Hi", he yells at me, causing echoes through the cavernous, empty train station. "I'm sorry," she apologizes for her ward, "He's a bit touched." "I'm touched," he loudly repeats. "Yeah", I say, sitting up, "What does that mean?" "Well," she starts to answer ... "No," I interrupt, "I want him to tell me." "I'm touched," he shouts again. "What does that mean", I repeat, "What does it mean to be touched, and how can I be touched, because I would like that." A smile lights up his face as it bobs, twists and shakes uncontrollably. He turns his whole body towards his Mother, looks at her with a quizzical look on his face, then turns back towards me. "You can't be touched," he blurts out, "You are normal ...I am different ... I am touched." "Are you sure," I ask, leaning closer to his smiling face. "Because I think you have been told something that is wrong." Now both he and his Mother look at me intently; she instinctively grabs a hold of his hand, studying me very closely. I am aware that my appearances clearly indicate I am a homeless man. I have not shaved in weeks. I have not bathed in days. I am wearing the same clothes I had on when I walked away from my home and life six months ago. "No," I continue, "Everyone else is different - you are normal." "People only tell you you are different, because they are jealous, they want to be like you, but they can't be. You are the only normal person in the whole, entire world. Everyone else is, a little touched." And, I wink at him. He lights up, rocks back and forth, laughs and guffaws. I get up; walk over to the two of them; shake his trembling hand; and, kiss his mother on the cheek. As I walk towards the exit, starting my journey back home, I turn and see a policeman walking past the two strangers - I barely hear the policeman say, "Good morning", followed by the boy's loud, booming voice, gleefully shout, "Hi, I am normal."

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Touched

The train station was mostly empty. The wooden bench was hard and uncomfortable; I had no place else to sleep. A rolled up newspaper was the best pillow I could find. An old, worn out lady and her teenage son sat in the row of seats facing my bench. He sat staring at me, while his muscles twitched, his face contorted and grunt sounds emitted from his throat. "Hi", he yells at me, causing echoes through the cavernous, empty train station. "I'm sorry," she apologizes for her ward, "He's a bit touched." "I'm touched," he loudly repeats. "Yeah", I say, sitting up, "What does that mean?" "Well," she starts to answer ... "No," I interrupt, "I want him to tell me." "I'm touched," he shouts again. "What does that mean", I repeat, "What does it mean to be touched, and how can I be touched, because I would like that." A smile lights up his face as it bobs, twists and shakes uncontrollably. He turns his whole body towards his Mother, looks at her with a quizzical look on his face, then turns back towards me. "You can't be touched," he blurts out, "You are normal ...I am different ... I am touched." "Are you sure," I ask, leaning closer to his smiling face. "Because I think you have been told something that is wrong." Now both he and his Mother look at me intently; she instinctively grabs a hold of his hand, studying me very closely. I am aware that my appearances clearly indicate I am a homeless man. I have not shaved in weeks. I have not bathed in days. I am wearing the same clothes I had on when I walked away from my home and life six months ago. "No," I continue, "Everyone else is different - you are normal." "People only tell you you are different, because they are jealous, they want to be like you, but they can't be. You are the only normal person in the whole, entire world. Everyone else is, a little touched." And, I wink at him. He lights up, rocks back and forth, laughs and guffaws. I get up; walk over to the two of them; shake his trembling hand; and, kiss his mother on the cheek. As I walk towards the exit, starting my journey back home, I turn and see a policeman walking past the two strangers - I barely hear the policeman say, "Good morning", followed by the boy's loud, booming voice, gleefully shout, "Hi, I am normal."