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 {"-Every second of my life in which I cherish, So that I will never burden myself with the thought of you, I try so hard to cope with the idea of straying yourself away from me, of you not being there for me because I know for a fact due to the orchestra singing loud and clear in my brain and preventing the attachment from growing more and more until it reaches and carves and formations into a ritual of me devoting myself for another individual, We smile we ask how we are talking about the future, our future, they are almost perfect as I am imperfect and I wonder inside if they see me the same as I see them, the dilemma fades away as sorcery, the delusions. The attachment has destroyed me and I know from the back of my mind, that I hear the trumpets blaring in my ears, the violin's discordant notes echoing in my head, and the drums pounding a warning. My body reacts—my head shakes, my fingers quiver—as I try to integrate these harsh sounds into my being. I have done it, and I am fond of it, I detach myself away, far away. I lock myself into the apartment of my house, and I avoid the human gaze as I don’t come out for days, my phone shuts on its own, and the battery has died from me glancing at it for 5 days wondering, hoping if somebody would reach out to me and my disappearance though, The messages don’t incorporate that red beam on the top-notch, neither do the phone calls, neither do the emails, neither does another person care for my existence. Five days gone by without a single trolley wishing me a good day, asking if I am alright, how I’ve been coping, what I have been doing cooped up in an apartment on a boulevard straying away from the crowds of luscious, sophisticated individuals going about their day, with no worry in their minds, they do not seek over-thinker presences it may seem, as my brain relapses on and on and I am afraid of going into a cardiac arrest, at the staggering point I have made that not one person, cares about my existence and I have gone astray out of my way with the thought of you. It diminishes, have you known all along how easily I could now cope with the idea of being solidarity, lonely, cooped up in an apartment, my arms taking in my face as I nestle upon the kitchen table with the brimming cup of coffee in my hand as my mother strokes my hair and I allow the world to swallow me up a whole with its feverish sentimental’s, joy and love my catastrophe as I pry myself away from me, and you, and all else about. I have written notes. I've penned countless notes, scattered throughout my neglected home, thoughts swirling in my mind like a game of ring around the Rosie. Ashes to ashes, I fall into my mind, I fall into havoc, they twist and twirl underneath deadly secrets and forcefully tucked in wounds so that I would bleed out upon it being gashed open several times, severed from, the knives in my back struck me more than once. I cope with the reality, I have learned to harden my face and pucker my lips and look upset, sad, coldblooded maybe? I’m desperately unwanted. An abundance of Smiles etched across faces, They are fake, never discernible, never genuine, severed their saws upon their victims and forced them to stay quiet but, on the inside, which has never been cased up as an ancient artifact, nor hidden away in trenches where you sobbed and wailed with a fist pressing against your mouth so nobody could become a witness at your trial, where it hasn’t been buried in a cemetery seven feet under, where it doesn’t lay upon the burials of burdens in a coffin, I still open my notes to this day with jittery hands, trembling fingers, bitten and gnawed nails, that have been written when I was only fourteen, and begging to god whom I believe still listens’, I still scream."}
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