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 My chair is rated for eight hours of sitting, optimal lumbar support, adjustable armrests, as if comfort could compensate for the slow calcification of dreams. I've organised my inbox into folders: Urgent, Important, Someday, Never. Someday is where ambition goes to die in increments too small to mourn. The metrics are always watching: response time, productivity score, the gamification of my worth reduced to numbers on a dashboard. My coworker brings her lunch in containers. Sunday's labor portioned into Tuesday's sustenance. We are all preparing for a future that looks exactly like today. The motivational poster says "You don't have to be great to start, but you have to start to be great." I've been starting for thirty-five years. In meetings, we discuss synergy, leverage, bandwidth, moving the needle. These words mean nothing and everything, a liturgy for the Department of staying employed. I dream in spreadsheets now. Columns of tasks that multiply like cells, each one dividing into subtasks, an infinite regression of doing. The retirement calculator says I can stop working at sixty if the market cooperates, if I don't get sick, if the world doesn't end first. But here's what they don't tell you about trading time for money: you can always make more money. Time, once sold, is gone forever. I close my laptop at 6.45pm One hour fifteen minutes of unpaid overtime, a tithe to the god of looking busy, of being seen as dedicated. Outside, the sun is setting on a day I barely noticed. Somewhere, people are living lives that don't fit into outlook calendars. Tomorrow I'll come back. Log in, stand up, sync up, circle back. The chair will remember the shape of my surrender. The screen will glow its welcome. And I will perform productivity like a trained animal who's forgotten there was ever any other way to justify taking up space on earth.
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