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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

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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The road drones as I run away, one eye ahead, one on the rearview. I squint and strain, blue-white beams on my tail. Twin beams, staring, keeping distant pace. You say, "It's been five years and we barely know each other." My pointed tongue and its egalitarian wit shot back, "Well, that's half my fault and half yours, dear." "Half yours" second of course. It's not that I'm a total jerk. She wouldn't have stayed with a total jerk this long. Keep telling yourself that. Every ditched jerk has his own "this long." I wanna tell myself she just caught me in a bad moment. I want her to be wrong about this... Prove it. That's the burden I hold everyone to. Why should I deserve an exemption? Prove it now! It'll mean jack if I rehearse. I live rehearsing. Rehearsing is fake. Where to start? So many choi— Friday, August 11, 2019. Arco, pump number 4. Smell of gas in front and lavender over my shoulder. I feel a tap, sharp and brief, right elbow. "Excuse me," comes a voice, richly feminine—soulful. I feel smug eyes on my back as I fumble for five minutes in search of the hood release of your two-door German abomination. You giggle as the Serbian mechanic on YouTube makes me look like a fool... Oil topped off, I hand back the key. Our fingers brush. I held those digits for a pride-worthy seventy-two hours before giving in. I'm glad I did. Life changed for the better in ten chicken pecks of nervous man on tempered glass. You say, "It's been five years and we barely know each other." The rumble strips chirp. I blink, correct the wheel, foot lighter on the pedal, car behind closer, a sparked memory: A late-April dinner date, home-cooked lasagna and Safeway tiramisu, third wheel catty-corner across the table: your twin, Ana. A beautiful mirror of you. Alike—beyond alike—in form but not in hue. I dream of you, you know, during my short lunch hour: That mole two inches southwest of that perfect navel, the crescent scar mid-left thigh from that Bridalveil Fall slip, crow's feet only a purposeful stare would catch, born of a soul destined to smile. I'll fight any man stupid enough to call that vaccine mark below your shoulder a blemish! The thought has me boiling—where was I?—oh, yeah: It'd be a lie to say I know every corner of you, but the ones I do, I cherish dearly. In short: you're amazing, and I love you, though I've clearly failed to connect with you. I swear if that's you behind I'll pull over here and now and beat you to "I'm sorry."

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The Road Drones

The road drones as I run away, one eye ahead, one on the rearview. I squint and strain, blue-white beams on my tail. Twin beams, staring, keeping distant pace. You say, "It's been five years and we barely know each other." My pointed tongue and its egalitarian wit shot back, "Well, that's half my fault and half yours, dear." "Half yours" second of course. It's not that I'm a total jerk. She wouldn't have stayed with a total jerk this long. Keep telling yourself that. Every ditched jerk has his own "this long." I wanna tell myself she just caught me in a bad moment. I want her to be wrong about this... Prove it. That's the burden I hold everyone to. Why should I deserve an exemption? Prove it now! It'll mean jack if I rehearse. I live rehearsing. Rehearsing is fake. Where to start? So many choi— Friday, August 11, 2019. Arco, pump number 4. Smell of gas in front and lavender over my shoulder. I feel a tap, sharp and brief, right elbow. "Excuse me," comes a voice, richly feminine—soulful. I feel smug eyes on my back as I fumble for five minutes in search of the hood release of your two-door German abomination. You giggle as the Serbian mechanic on YouTube makes me look like a fool... Oil topped off, I hand back the key. Our fingers brush. I held those digits for a pride-worthy seventy-two hours before giving in. I'm glad I did. Life changed for the better in ten chicken pecks of nervous man on tempered glass. You say, "It's been five years and we barely know each other." The rumble strips chirp. I blink, correct the wheel, foot lighter on the pedal, car behind closer, a sparked memory: A late-April dinner date, home-cooked lasagna and Safeway tiramisu, third wheel catty-corner across the table: your twin, Ana. A beautiful mirror of you. Alike—beyond alike—in form but not in hue. I dream of you, you know, during my short lunch hour: That mole two inches southwest of that perfect navel, the crescent scar mid-left thigh from that Bridalveil Fall slip, crow's feet only a purposeful stare would catch, born of a soul destined to smile. I'll fight any man stupid enough to call that vaccine mark below your shoulder a blemish! The thought has me boiling—where was I?—oh, yeah: It'd be a lie to say I know every corner of you, but the ones I do, I cherish dearly. In short: you're amazing, and I love you, though I've clearly failed to connect with you. I swear if that's you behind I'll pull over here and now and beat you to "I'm sorry."