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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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Breaking into abandoned psychiactric centers isn’t as fun as it seems. Oh, some nights have I had. I don’t feel too well. I just need to let everything pour out. To come out onto the screen and paper and wall and floor and everywhere I can transfer it to. Once again I am sitting here alone while my roommates have all gone out to drink. Drink. Drink. College. College. Are my children going to be disappointed to hear I wasn’t the party girl? Will they be sad that I don’t have repulsive stories of vomiting and one night stands? Why do we do this? Is that it? To tell our kids - to create a person - to create a personality - to construct a mask.These masks are not colourful or flashy or expensive. These masks are plain white plaster. Whitewashed wisdom. Everyone wears this mask. No defining characteristics. You can’t really tell if the person next to you is your closest friend or a complete stranger Here I sit with my eyes closed. This entire time. I did all those things and pushed myself further and further into a sedated state that I can hardly remember. Suffering is the best thing for an artist. Every artist was an addict. An addict of some sort. Some sort. Some sort of an addict. Maybe that’s what I need - maybe that’s why I still do this - maybe that’s why I stay home when everyone isout having a “good ol’ college time.” Not a recluse. I swear. He can’t hear me but I can hear the sludge of sounds though the telephone. I’m sitting up so as not to let my thoughts become sluggish although they do such a thing on their own. My entire body has been injected with a cloud. It is floating through every extremity, every vein, every cell. I lay limp and wonder how it’s possible to even do this. To function at all. My stomach feels empty but I know what it holds. The imagine in my mind of my insides housing some bodily fluid and a plethora of dissolving pills. Plethora may be an understatement. Dissolving and fizzing and melting and the thought of that the thought of that the thought of that... that makes me sick. Dissolving in cold stagnant water. Sitting sedating. Satisfied, thouhg? I don’t know how I got here. I’ve been sitting here the entire time but what happened between when I first took seat and this very moment. All of you. Take off your masks.

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Breaking into abandoned psychiactric centers isn’t as fun as it seems. Oh, some nights have I had. I don’t feel too well. I just need to let everything pour out. To come out onto the screen and paper and wall and floor and everywhere I can transfer it to. Once again I am sitting here alone while my roommates have all gone out to drink. Drink. Drink. College. College. Are my children going to be disappointed to hear I wasn’t the party girl? Will they be sad that I don’t have repulsive stories of vomiting and one night stands? Why do we do this? Is that it? To tell our kids - to create a person - to create a personality - to construct a mask.These masks are not colourful or flashy or expensive. These masks are plain white plaster. Whitewashed wisdom. Everyone wears this mask. No defining characteristics. You can’t really tell if the person next to you is your closest friend or a complete stranger Here I sit with my eyes closed. This entire time. I did all those things and pushed myself further and further into a sedated state that I can hardly remember. Suffering is the best thing for an artist. Every artist was an addict. An addict of some sort. Some sort. Some sort of an addict. Maybe that’s what I need - maybe that’s why I still do this - maybe that’s why I stay home when everyone isout having a “good ol’ college time.” Not a recluse. I swear. He can’t hear me but I can hear the sludge of sounds though the telephone. I’m sitting up so as not to let my thoughts become sluggish although they do such a thing on their own. My entire body has been injected with a cloud. It is floating through every extremity, every vein, every cell. I lay limp and wonder how it’s possible to even do this. To function at all. My stomach feels empty but I know what it holds. The imagine in my mind of my insides housing some bodily fluid and a plethora of dissolving pills. Plethora may be an understatement. Dissolving and fizzing and melting and the thought of that the thought of that the thought of that... that makes me sick. Dissolving in cold stagnant water. Sitting sedating. Satisfied, thouhg? I don’t know how I got here. I’ve been sitting here the entire time but what happened between when I first took seat and this very moment. All of you. Take off your masks.