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 It feels like the world has been struck by a plague of pathological lies, where fictional truth seems to sell better, the allure of imitation glistens even brighter, while superficial tongues recite infected mantras, praising slaves of Satan~ singing corpse lullabies. And I can feel my drained soul descending into darkness, as this cathartic sanctuary slowly decays, into odds and ends of incessant numbness. Spikes drive through this splintered ribcage, shackling my life force, to silently bleed in salvation. I feel the scorching iron ore entering my splitting heart, as they watch the crimson flow, mocking my doomed empathy. For kindness is disregarded, in a cynical world that has no mercy, falling into an abyss of tears, awaiting eternal sleep, never to rise to another devil’s trance, whilst bleeding in reckless reckoning. I am the mistreated mistress in misery, stranded in the midst of an abandoned island~ cruising through roaring waves, in desperate hope for butterfly bliss. I trace deadly deeds in bloodstained sea-castles, pleading the lord, to tether the cold walls, that hide all these layers of brokenness. Carvings of chaos on my skin, choreograph a prodigious dance of death, commemorating creased calm, with prophetic songs that have no life. For the coldest breeze still lingers in circles, from the pits of an out-burnt mountain, reluctant to rearrange dried up poison, with their cape of sentiments, in cold refrains and resentment. Yet I question the cosmic Peridots scattered between moonstones in artless skies. How can a poet make the dead seem beautiful again, when musty maggots are the only fillings they would get?
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