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 So here’s the deal: I’m completely pissed off, but not really- Really I’m heartbroken and just trying to breathe through the ache in my chest, But that really has nothing to do with what’s going on does it. This is ridiculous. I hate it. It’s not something I can just fix. If I could make him forget just by kissing him stupid I would. However, this is a bit too raw for that. It’s like when your fave song comes on and you’re voice begins to break near the end because you’re holding back tears. Nothing really detracts from that feeling of complete abandon. That’s true for love on both ends. Passion when you’re together, battering desperate aching when you’re not. Now, I enjoy pain. I enjoy the sharp, sweet edge. I don’t enjoy this mind numbing pounding. Like my body is being pulled inside out. There is no tearing, no ripping, no cutting, no sharp. Just dull, stretching emptiness. There is no joy in that. Only the true masochist in me finds something in this. I don’t like dwelling on that part of me. I’d rather be sharp. Like when you’re cut by a knife so sharp that it takes a minute for your body to register it as pain. Sharp. Sweet. Sinfully simple. Love. This isn’t what I signed up for. But then, what is? I love you. That doesn’t really matter. Does it.
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