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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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Blow a whistle, or write a song, while the white bearded-men of small fishing towns drown the nights away. Try to forget, if only for so long, that the tempted wish bowl rolls; floats like a wing and cries great lies of childish negligence, coming to wish all the best, to each worried-face at the contest. Broken seats flood empty spaces of the unsaid, whispers sneak about as my heart beats, taking the pain out of what the people on TV finally confessed. The hidden message, the broken bills, hiding, in a black back room, twice locked, twice removed. The rich and the poor, a cousin, but there’s more, where that came from that we choose, or tend, to ignore. Pick a poison, pick a fruit, like the other one said: I’d rather be dead. I tend to forget how to relate, sometimes, some such, to each other and a stretched out story passed down from another forgotten tribe. This is what the line allows. There’s a scratch, and a rock, a touch and a match, to keep the time clicking on, like a bomb. There’s a little liquor, I shiver, wanting to close the blinds. But my mind pounds, counting down the days until I can run sideways or inside, someplace, jumping through hoops if I have to or if it helps. I know that at one time, they’ve said “One Day” and I still see them sitting all around; a circle is a monstrous thing that keeps them coming back, without missing anything, without a sound. It’s like a stamp; it’s like a message; it’s just a damn thing that they found. Wondering: the word I hear if there’s a note hit that high every time. I let it simmer, and cut the chord, laying back ever so slightly, waiting, waiting, and finally unwinding. Another turn twirls on by, the jagged, abrupt tuck, small rocks sticking out; like a pine branch on a path. I think it’s weird and sad and treacherous, and I haven’t told anyone that before. A year older, probably the reason why, passing by the wise, not surprised, uninspired and demoralized. “Walk the Line,” they say, trying to turn a blind eye. So I’ll shut up and just get in the back, with a worried look, turning my neck, to see it all once more, before it’s over and I have truly tried to cross that fine line.

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It's a Fine Line

Blow a whistle, or write a song, while the white bearded-men of small fishing towns drown the nights away. Try to forget, if only for so long, that the tempted wish bowl rolls; floats like a wing and cries great lies of childish negligence, coming to wish all the best, to each worried-face at the contest. Broken seats flood empty spaces of the unsaid, whispers sneak about as my heart beats, taking the pain out of what the people on TV finally confessed. The hidden message, the broken bills, hiding, in a black back room, twice locked, twice removed. The rich and the poor, a cousin, but there’s more, where that came from that we choose, or tend, to ignore. Pick a poison, pick a fruit, like the other one said: I’d rather be dead. I tend to forget how to relate, sometimes, some such, to each other and a stretched out story passed down from another forgotten tribe. This is what the line allows. There’s a scratch, and a rock, a touch and a match, to keep the time clicking on, like a bomb. There’s a little liquor, I shiver, wanting to close the blinds. But my mind pounds, counting down the days until I can run sideways or inside, someplace, jumping through hoops if I have to or if it helps. I know that at one time, they’ve said “One Day” and I still see them sitting all around; a circle is a monstrous thing that keeps them coming back, without missing anything, without a sound. It’s like a stamp; it’s like a message; it’s just a damn thing that they found. Wondering: the word I hear if there’s a note hit that high every time. I let it simmer, and cut the chord, laying back ever so slightly, waiting, waiting, and finally unwinding. Another turn twirls on by, the jagged, abrupt tuck, small rocks sticking out; like a pine branch on a path. I think it’s weird and sad and treacherous, and I haven’t told anyone that before. A year older, probably the reason why, passing by the wise, not surprised, uninspired and demoralized. “Walk the Line,” they say, trying to turn a blind eye. So I’ll shut up and just get in the back, with a worried look, turning my neck, to see it all once more, before it’s over and I have truly tried to cross that fine line.