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 I was given a map with no land, a compass that spun to the music of sneers, a torch that devoured its own flame, and told: Go win!— in a whisper stitched with grins and stitched again with forgetting. My shoes were born backwards, laces tied to the heelbone of regret; the starting line a mirage sewn on the horizon, a ribbon of smoke that laughed when I stepped forward, then dissolved into a blueprint of salt. In the cradle of my skull, the jury had long since ruled: Guilty of aspiration, sentenced to strive. No matter how fast, no matter how clever, I was a riddle answered by silence, a match struck underwater. My dreams were paper kites in a hailstorm— bright, fragile, furiously irrelevant, stitched from the discarded blueprints of men who had already drowned. The rules? Written in invisible ink, translated by tongues too forked to trust. The crowd? A congregation of mirrors, each one smirking my face back at me, but slightly more cracked, slightly less human. You see, I was not made to cross the finish line; I was engineered to chase it endlessly, like a moth courting a funeral pyre, like a mariner charting a course through oceans that never agreed to exist. It is not that I was destined to lose. It is that I was never offered the raw material to even define victory. My blueprint was a knot of contradictions: a body wired to run, feet nailed to uncut stone. Is it defeat if the game was a phantom? Is it losing, if the finish line was always behind you, written in sand that the first breath of ambition erased? I dance on the unpaved road, feet blistered with possibilities, hands full of smoke and unmade maps. Because sometimes, even failing at nothing requires an act of tremendous, invisible grace— a kind of sacred losing, too perfect for the vulgar world to name.
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