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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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required There is always a song to be sung and I surround the one on the stage, crowding him, reminding him to sing, to dance, to pretend... I like the fearful, the devotees... I smile to them my Mona Lisa smile, as they beg the Lord for forgiveness, for inspiration for clemency, if he listens, if he cares, if he inspires, it's well beyond my care. Clemency he has none to give, for I am forever inspiring and certain. There is always a thing or two that they can daily do to forget: and as they do, religiously, time takes them by the hand and delivers them all to me. The soulful, I take away in majestic strides, as the courageous I sit beside, as they drive their cars hundreds of miles an hour over a cliff, against a tree. The uninspired I arrive late to collect, in their forever muted state they go peacefully, in their sleep. There will be people there, crying. I come, collect them and move on. As I walk away with them I see a building, a fence, a nice garden that reminds me of someone. Step by step, in my lead shoes, I tiptoe on the others: the passionate, the inspired, as they put the final touches on their latest creations, as they begin their opus. We walk away together and I hear their passionate tales of their unfinished masterpieces: a beautiful painting, a beautiful score, a perfect quilt, the first typed pages of a new novel that would inspire millions. A late afternoon, an early morning stroll, is always better accompanied by someone whose time has run out. I watch them passionately describing how grandiose it would have been: they are still focused, strangely connected, eternally unaware, forever dreaming, and I am the one destined to exist only in their stories and the wondrous promises held in their unfinished work. On rare occasions, I read over their shoulders and find absolute beauty, and I wait, teary-eyed, ignoring the clock, until the lead marks the paper one final time, one final note: the end. They see me and acquiesce, and I take them away into the night quietly, and I know I should feel betrayed but genius is rare indeed and mediocrity makes me forgotten.
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