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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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Everyone hates my poetry Because it doesn’t wear makeup. Because it stares too long, or not long enough. Because it mentions the body like a room that remembers every man who left his name in dust. Because it’s too sad, too loud, too holy, too raw— because it does not ask permission to bleed where others would politely weep. They say I should whisper. I scream in stanzas instead. Line breaks like broken bones — each one healed wrong on purpose. I rhyme “fxxk” with “forgiveness” and call it a sacrament. I flirt with ghosts. I give grief a seat at the table. I write what I can’t confess. And then I press send. And wait. And wait. And wait. ? Go your own way, they say. But I was never theirs to lose. I won’t be your throat, your mouth, your Sunday-quiet muse. Dance in the avalanche — I’ll be drinking full-blooded wine. You butter your toast, I’ll bleed ink and call it divine. I’m Dracula, you’re limpets — clinging to shores of should. Sinister mercy monsters with teeth made of wood. You won’t take mine. I’ve bartered them for metaphor. For myth. For the kind of flame that never asks to be understood. I sit on a throne shaped like an electric chair, burning truth until only the bones of beauty remain. You? You live in living rooms. You collect pretty things. I braid your betrayal into a lei of lunacy — my madness in bloom. Say I’m too old. Too female. Too much. There’s something in the water. Damn right. I am the water. I merge with ocean light. The moon kisses me goodnight. Why do I need your approval to feel seen? Must just be a throwback trauma dream. Your eyes — not galaxies, but black holes, sucking the light from my becoming. I offered constellations, you brought collapse. But still— I orbit my own flame. Still, I rise in ruin’s dress, sequined with scars. I chew the fat with better men than you, men who don’t flinch when a woman burns through. Men who sip my fury like wine, and still ask for another glass. You? You watered me down, then called me “too much” for the mess you made. ? And still I write.

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Everyone Hates My Poetry

Everyone hates my poetry Because it doesn’t wear makeup. Because it stares too long, or not long enough. Because it mentions the body like a room that remembers every man who left his name in dust. Because it’s too sad, too loud, too holy, too raw— because it does not ask permission to bleed where others would politely weep. They say I should whisper. I scream in stanzas instead. Line breaks like broken bones — each one healed wrong on purpose. I rhyme “fxxk” with “forgiveness” and call it a sacrament. I flirt with ghosts. I give grief a seat at the table. I write what I can’t confess. And then I press send. And wait. And wait. And wait. ? Go your own way, they say. But I was never theirs to lose. I won’t be your throat, your mouth, your Sunday-quiet muse. Dance in the avalanche — I’ll be drinking full-blooded wine. You butter your toast, I’ll bleed ink and call it divine. I’m Dracula, you’re limpets — clinging to shores of should. Sinister mercy monsters with teeth made of wood. You won’t take mine. I’ve bartered them for metaphor. For myth. For the kind of flame that never asks to be understood. I sit on a throne shaped like an electric chair, burning truth until only the bones of beauty remain. You? You live in living rooms. You collect pretty things. I braid your betrayal into a lei of lunacy — my madness in bloom. Say I’m too old. Too female. Too much. There’s something in the water. Damn right. I am the water. I merge with ocean light. The moon kisses me goodnight. Why do I need your approval to feel seen? Must just be a throwback trauma dream. Your eyes — not galaxies, but black holes, sucking the light from my becoming. I offered constellations, you brought collapse. But still— I orbit my own flame. Still, I rise in ruin’s dress, sequined with scars. I chew the fat with better men than you, men who don’t flinch when a woman burns through. Men who sip my fury like wine, and still ask for another glass. You? You watered me down, then called me “too much” for the mess you made. ? And still I write.