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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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Love. There are so many conotations behind it, Yet what does it mean? I think too much, But can’t come to terms with any thoughts. This brain fog is yet to go, But how will I know When it is gone? Love. What I feel is not romantic, no. It is not some crush, It is not feeble, I am not in love. I swallow the dry taste of confusion Drifting through me. I cannot think, But the thoughts are always there. What is love? Why must it be divided into parts Like romantic and platonic? I don’t know where to start. This feeling is not romantic, Yet it is not platonic, either. What I feel goes deeper, but not too deep. I continue to wonder; What might be if these words ever released from my lips. I love in a way that cannot be described. Comfort. Warmth. Safety. Those are the words Quawing like birds In my mind. Love. I am constantly thinking. Not with my head, But with my heart. But I wonder: Is my heart burdened by my brain? All of this pain Yet to go away. What is love? Is it some socially constructed label? One of few definitions, none worthy of explaining What is going on up there? Who’s to say? My mind won’t sway, It’s just another day Of tormented silence. What does it mean to be held? Why would I ever want that in a non-carnal way? Because I am not to be narrowed down to some physical prowess. My anxiety keeps me from feeling, But makes me feel constantly. Love. Why must you be so complicated? Drifting away, I do not pray To a god, But to anyone listening to free me from sorrow. This love is not sorrow, no. But the state of unknowing is treacherous. Why must I conform to societies beliefs of what I am supposed to feel? Love. I don’t know what this love is, I just know what it isn’t. What is this love?
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