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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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He’s behind the bar, polishing glasses like they’re his last remaining purpose. “I know things!” he insists. “I watch Question Time! I once bought quinoa by accident!” He pours stout with the weight of centuries. Tries to explain The Bell Jar like it’s a limited-edition craft IPA. You raise a brow, sip espresso from a flamingo-shaped chalice, and summon Virginia Woolf. — She floats in — half disapproval, half divine fog — and asks if his masculinity comes with a recycling bin. He gulps. “But I— I run a respectable establishment. We do quizzes… on Thursdays!” — Enter Frida, eyebrows arched like battle lines. She lights a cigarette with her pain and paints the room into discomfort. — Medusa follows, snakes whispering subtext. She glares at the jukebox — it turns to stone. — You intervene (reluctantly). He’s soft. Confused. Still polishing. Still hoping to be useful. — Then the Amazons arrive, wearing fury as fashion. One reprograms the jukebox to only play Nina Simone. Even the Rabbit (yes, that one) fidgets beneath the weight of liberated metaphors. — So raise your chalice, darling — to rabbits. To rage. To those who dare to feel. For this is where myth gets messy — and still, we make art from the spill.

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The Espresso Salon

He’s behind the bar, polishing glasses like they’re his last remaining purpose. “I know things!” he insists. “I watch Question Time! I once bought quinoa by accident!” He pours stout with the weight of centuries. Tries to explain The Bell Jar like it’s a limited-edition craft IPA. You raise a brow, sip espresso from a flamingo-shaped chalice, and summon Virginia Woolf. — She floats in — half disapproval, half divine fog — and asks if his masculinity comes with a recycling bin. He gulps. “But I— I run a respectable establishment. We do quizzes… on Thursdays!” — Enter Frida, eyebrows arched like battle lines. She lights a cigarette with her pain and paints the room into discomfort. — Medusa follows, snakes whispering subtext. She glares at the jukebox — it turns to stone. — You intervene (reluctantly). He’s soft. Confused. Still polishing. Still hoping to be useful. — Then the Amazons arrive, wearing fury as fashion. One reprograms the jukebox to only play Nina Simone. Even the Rabbit (yes, that one) fidgets beneath the weight of liberated metaphors. — So raise your chalice, darling — to rabbits. To rage. To those who dare to feel. For this is where myth gets messy — and still, we make art from the spill.