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 A boy’s tears are distensible, like a brittle platter embodying the face of rejection. He collapses into the opposite of a child, his hands in soot, trembling around a book. Knowledge has no place in the mind of one who begs to be fed, who escapes life like a skip button, and bids his future into a refugee camp. The quiet act of peace is the noise inside his dreams— the raven’s voice telling him, Believe. Believe in today for tomorrow. And by the wall where he hides to read, where he manifests freedom, he clings to drawings, rehearsing his tracks back to a home void of his name, its people, its purpose, its creation. With his fingers, he traces humanity back to Eden, to where water flowed without parting ways. What do forgotten things know about justice? If peace mutated the first time the sun hit Mars, would the Earth still flutter? Who passes rights onto a species? Are we not all specimens walking into divagation, laid on tumultuous eruptions, unable to see our toes through our eyes? If trees could water themselves, you think they would dream of becoming fountains? We have been reliving freedom like chickens birthing eggs— endlessly, redundantly. Until when will this wish be granted? The boy knows grief as rebellion against his thoughts, where bullets and bombs are not the only things calling his death to nothingness. For any living thing, to dream is grace. And destiny, we know, malfunctions its way into adulteration. So let him seek peace in the ways he wishes— to free a bird from its cage, to grasp in chaos and name it inspiration, to be utterly mad and call it poetry. Let him.
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