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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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Men enjoy the smell of Camel cigarettes at the check-in counter just like they enjoy the sound of bones tapping on wood in the late AM in the hallways. Stilettos are from God. Then, the slow tapping at his door. The heart beats more. The drunkenness of his eye. They enjoy. Spider-like, how both women with dyed blonde hair and coarse, rubicund skin crawl to John on the bed. The strange car downstairs with lights on still waits outside. The women begin to kiss each other’s lips. One with a small bump above her lip quickly hooks her fingers at the top edge of his pants. One bends down in front of him. The other, with her hands, touches what is sacred. The rickety sound of the window air conditioner shakes and rattles. The old stench in the carpet swells. Outside, the rain begins to pour sideways. It bangs dramatically on the roof. The man working the late shift behind the front counter with an old, small TV on his lap is drunk again. A sound of something on the floor moves. He lazily opens his eyes and sees nothing and closes them. A light-skinned, middle-aged black man in a car parked car outside with the windshield wipers still on waits in silence. His body is slumped towards the steering wheel, gun in his hand as if he was waiting for a sign to make a move if he had to.

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Pierce Hotel

Men enjoy the smell of Camel cigarettes at the check-in counter just like they enjoy the sound of bones tapping on wood in the late AM in the hallways. Stilettos are from God. Then, the slow tapping at his door. The heart beats more. The drunkenness of his eye. They enjoy. Spider-like, how both women with dyed blonde hair and coarse, rubicund skin crawl to John on the bed. The strange car downstairs with lights on still waits outside. The women begin to kiss each other’s lips. One with a small bump above her lip quickly hooks her fingers at the top edge of his pants. One bends down in front of him. The other, with her hands, touches what is sacred. The rickety sound of the window air conditioner shakes and rattles. The old stench in the carpet swells. Outside, the rain begins to pour sideways. It bangs dramatically on the roof. The man working the late shift behind the front counter with an old, small TV on his lap is drunk again. A sound of something on the floor moves. He lazily opens his eyes and sees nothing and closes them. A light-skinned, middle-aged black man in a car parked car outside with the windshield wipers still on waits in silence. His body is slumped towards the steering wheel, gun in his hand as if he was waiting for a sign to make a move if he had to.