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 don't hurt. —Johnny Thunders, lead guitarist of The Dolls, last words My ancestors are made of malt and barley, barely a drop of water left— Midas in jorts and Nikes, overplaying hands, turning miracles into Milwaukee's Best. I call it Bacchanal; they call it survival— hedonistic sounds more literary than alcoholic. A heritage of rootless feet, ten men’s teeth between twenty, all rotted. They were proud of the wrong things. My father says he could take a punch. I know better— the arc of his arm, the twist of his knuckles. I know he can throw one. I know how to mold frozen peas to a blue eye, how to save his day with this phrase: It don’t hurt. The confidence it took to laugh with Huber Heights police— ****-talking mouthy kids like me, while I brokered backyard deals, babysat for safety, blowjobs as currency— a language the dads understood. Only way to get them to call 9-1-1, report another pillar of their community, when they heard my screams. My tongue burns with things I haven’t even said— about fathers and fists, the slow murder of tenderness. Just a pinch of it could’ve saved one of us, maybe both— at least given me a shot at rewriting this, revising my father’s memory, sloshing in my gut, heavy as the blood-soaked prostate of that long-gone man. You can’t protect yourself from this kind of inheritance, same booze, different brand. But I’m a woman with the gift of language bad-lipping the devil who brought me to this dance— still here, gaining muscle in my tongue, writing my way out of this silence, spilling ink like piss on a grave, acting it like it matters— I’m finally the one laughing, hoping this page outlasts that mother****er’s legacy.
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