Home » Poems » Poetry Art » Poetry Art / Greeting Card Maker

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.

Text
Layout
Background

Enter Title (Not Required)

Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required
I held my arms, sleeping, around her breasts, bending, allowing myself to fall, the ghosting, dark wake, the fiery sands burned by a storm of thorn trees, burned by the march of sea and the keys of incense that hang near her bed. Soft and fiery sweetness, a book of songs that didn’t affect me, a white dress with a tattered hem, elegant skin whose breath has already evaporated. There is no physical reflection on her breasts, my love, the fluidity of a river in the shadow of the heron’s head. There is no destruction of a dead river in the pale water of her beauty. Your eyes, the depths of their ravines, the fire in the dark, your hearts, holding mine, their tornness, the loss of a companion, in the silence of the corridors where the footsteps of strangers run. From the raves I must admit I will never feel intoxicated, but I need so desperately to feel intoxicated, to finish my life in the warehouse, under the light of an old beveled mirror with a knife propped against the square of glass, the light of the ghost, of the burning card, of the ghost of unimportant dreams, of the funny dreams I dream every night. I would like to exist like the strange creature that thrives in the laboratory of an art dealer in an abandoned warehouse. Held her ankles, enjoying her existence, trembling, embracing, trembling, our breath circulating the smoky air of a kiss. She only exists when my back rests on a cold polished floor, in the darkness, in her natural state, my brother, my pride, my hope. To touch her, to feel her breasts, her lips, her hands, all the parts of her body that run all over mine, that brings me nothing, for this expression is simple, low, they do not consider her existence, my love, to raise her up or to lower her, to grab her legs, to kiss her lips, to kiss her nose. Everything but the head, where she is still touched by the forehead of a stranger, from one of the corridors, one of the cracked doors, where her lovers walk, from the stones and shadows of cold halls, the one that is lifted from the depths of a world of books. You only exist, my love, with the touch of your palms. From behind my childhood wall, I have met the daughters of stars, from behind my own walls, the girl that lives in the corridor, has warmed up my life, there with me on the cold polished floor, my passion. Everything is there, hidden in the dark depths, revealed by the hallway, the fading curtain of candles, the evening light, a kind of passionate romance, my love, whose bones are growing every day as if they were long-dead, those young girls, the memory of the last night, the abandoned street, the shadow of an old bed, a memory of the night that passed, but only lives in the room where I am lying. Leaned against a window of a skyscraper, red-eyed, like a demon, muttering, covered with a black apron, sobbing from an open wound. What was that, love? What did you see? Those eyes of the future, seen in the silence of my mind, in the chaos of my thoughts. It was dark, I have left the house in the street, I have entered the house. What was that sound? I can not go further, there is nothing here, it was dark, it was closed, the doors were closed, it was dark, the house empty, but it was empty as the city when the people pass through fighting for love, compassion, and complete understanding. :: 10.21.2020 ::

Enter Author Name (Not Required)

Move Text:

Heading Text

Color:

Main/Poem Text

Color:

Layout: TallShort

www.poetrysoup.com - Create a card from your words, quote, or poetry

Fighting For Complete Understanding

I held my arms, sleeping, around her breasts, bending, allowing myself to fall, the ghosting, dark wake, the fiery sands burned by a storm of thorn trees, burned by the march of sea and the keys of incense that hang near her bed. Soft and fiery sweetness, a book of songs that didn’t affect me, a white dress with a tattered hem, elegant skin whose breath has already evaporated. There is no physical reflection on her breasts, my love, the fluidity of a river in the shadow of the heron’s head. There is no destruction of a dead river in the pale water of her beauty. Your eyes, the depths of their ravines, the fire in the dark, your hearts, holding mine, their tornness, the loss of a companion, in the silence of the corridors where the footsteps of strangers run. From the raves I must admit I will never feel intoxicated, but I need so desperately to feel intoxicated, to finish my life in the warehouse, under the light of an old beveled mirror with a knife propped against the square of glass, the light of the ghost, of the burning card, of the ghost of unimportant dreams, of the funny dreams I dream every night. I would like to exist like the strange creature that thrives in the laboratory of an art dealer in an abandoned warehouse. Held her ankles, enjoying her existence, trembling, embracing, trembling, our breath circulating the smoky air of a kiss. She only exists when my back rests on a cold polished floor, in the darkness, in her natural state, my brother, my pride, my hope. To touch her, to feel her breasts, her lips, her hands, all the parts of her body that run all over mine, that brings me nothing, for this expression is simple, low, they do not consider her existence, my love, to raise her up or to lower her, to grab her legs, to kiss her lips, to kiss her nose. Everything but the head, where she is still touched by the forehead of a stranger, from one of the corridors, one of the cracked doors, where her lovers walk, from the stones and shadows of cold halls, the one that is lifted from the depths of a world of books. You only exist, my love, with the touch of your palms. From behind my childhood wall, I have met the daughters of stars, from behind my own walls, the girl that lives in the corridor, has warmed up my life, there with me on the cold polished floor, my passion. Everything is there, hidden in the dark depths, revealed by the hallway, the fading curtain of candles, the evening light, a kind of passionate romance, my love, whose bones are growing every day as if they were long-dead, those young girls, the memory of the last night, the abandoned street, the shadow of an old bed, a memory of the night that passed, but only lives in the room where I am lying. Leaned against a window of a skyscraper, red-eyed, like a demon, muttering, covered with a black apron, sobbing from an open wound. What was that, love? What did you see? Those eyes of the future, seen in the silence of my mind, in the chaos of my thoughts. It was dark, I have left the house in the street, I have entered the house. What was that sound? I can not go further, there is nothing here, it was dark, it was closed, the doors were closed, it was dark, the house empty, but it was empty as the city when the people pass through fighting for love, compassion, and complete understanding. :: 10.21.2020 ::