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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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The dead they are burned not by heat or cold. Their spears did not grow heavy, blooms do not sprout from their ribbed barrels. They chew now on spent bullets; they have captured themselves. In dark allies a switchblade blindness enters hearts, rage sprouts red flowers. Everything is a memory even the future. The living kill randomly, sometimes with a great kindness, a sweetness that fattens the maggot. The earth rages on. Rage buries you alive, yet you still survive. Rumi said: ‘you must dance in your own blood.' That kind of killer instinct leads you out of the fire into an oblivion that polishes eyes, makes them shine in the darkest dark. Mad man are their own wolf pack. Embrace the fang, bleed into their yawping maws. If you have a ghost in your heart make love to it In the tramp of the throng. The dead have slaughtered themselves, pity them not, they rage not, they are mad with love now, long manacled to greater lusts, passions only those beyond the horizon of themselves may see. Those who have come through are set apart as sacred scarecrows in a field of sleeping dogs. Light candles, scorch the wax until the smoke gutters into absence. Do not pray for the gone, they are all inside you now, quenching your own rage that licks and flames.

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A Poem For the Raging

The dead they are burned not by heat or cold. Their spears did not grow heavy, blooms do not sprout from their ribbed barrels. They chew now on spent bullets; they have captured themselves. In dark allies a switchblade blindness enters hearts, rage sprouts red flowers. Everything is a memory even the future. The living kill randomly, sometimes with a great kindness, a sweetness that fattens the maggot. The earth rages on. Rage buries you alive, yet you still survive. Rumi said: ‘you must dance in your own blood.' That kind of killer instinct leads you out of the fire into an oblivion that polishes eyes, makes them shine in the darkest dark. Mad man are their own wolf pack. Embrace the fang, bleed into their yawping maws. If you have a ghost in your heart make love to it In the tramp of the throng. The dead have slaughtered themselves, pity them not, they rage not, they are mad with love now, long manacled to greater lusts, passions only those beyond the horizon of themselves may see. Those who have come through are set apart as sacred scarecrows in a field of sleeping dogs. Light candles, scorch the wax until the smoke gutters into absence. Do not pray for the gone, they are all inside you now, quenching your own rage that licks and flames.