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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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I want to run her thoughts through a carwash, they are not dirty, just old, the way a classic corvette needs a rinse occasionally, but never a re-paint Not that I think of her as a car, more an abandoned engine that had been laid too long in a barn. farm mice had learned to turn her ignition without the need for any fresh oil. Dinner together in a Texas Roadhouse. The nasal song of a country boy trapped in a ball-breaking melody. I can’t hear her words, she can’t hear mine…finally we’re communicating. An owl in a hollow tree can hear the whole dark forest. I imagine I am roosting in her throat, listening, not to her mind or mine, but Brailing my way around her silence. The streaks are good, throats become naked as the food alone speaks to us. Then here between her vocal folds a little girl is weeping. There in the craw-dark, a mother belittles and scolds. An inner voice far from this moment speaks: “My ears are too big. I will never be smart enough, witty enough, thin enough, worthy of love.” A broken echo intones. It is a recording. The recounting has no motor, no apparatus, just etched grooves scored into an ethereal larynx. The server comes around. “How you’ll doing.” She and the waitress look to me, but I am still in the hollow of her throat a space now witnessing my own doleful litany of sad songs.

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I want to run her thoughts through a carwash, they are not dirty, just old, the way a classic corvette needs a rinse occasionally, but never a re-paint Not that I think of her as a car, more an abandoned engine that had been laid too long in a barn. farm mice had learned to turn her ignition without the need for any fresh oil. Dinner together in a Texas Roadhouse. The nasal song of a country boy trapped in a ball-breaking melody. I can’t hear her words, she can’t hear mine…finally we’re communicating. An owl in a hollow tree can hear the whole dark forest. I imagine I am roosting in her throat, listening, not to her mind or mine, but Brailing my way around her silence. The streaks are good, throats become naked as the food alone speaks to us. Then here between her vocal folds a little girl is weeping. There in the craw-dark, a mother belittles and scolds. An inner voice far from this moment speaks: “My ears are too big. I will never be smart enough, witty enough, thin enough, worthy of love.” A broken echo intones. It is a recording. The recounting has no motor, no apparatus, just etched grooves scored into an ethereal larynx. The server comes around. “How you’ll doing.” She and the waitress look to me, but I am still in the hollow of her throat a space now witnessing my own doleful litany of sad songs.