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 I I am disinfected, sanitised from touch and eyes Do not hold me. I am Bakelite and you smolder Sat solid, the wall cold against my spine. A back-rest To concrete electrocution. I am distilled from Suburbia and Bohemian at Brandenberg Rigid and saturnine. Heavy lidded Lichtenstein moons And ruby lip and cheek. Dumb-flustered and silent rictus Nothing changes. II She edges closer with ostentatious mute steps. Like a bride And thrice as white with crimson orb flowing underneath Her caped wings and paper hat. Tiny dragging movements As though her legs could snap This marionette matchstick girl unfurls her bouquet of fingers intertwined And ruffles from her drapes fragments of paper and a tiny plastic cup I do not notice her. The bleach sticks heavy to the throat and She envenoms me to the core stomach She speaks. It is static heavy and foriegn, black-lipped vowels and dull Continuations of barely literate sounds. My words are daggered brutes, any poetry the less of my expectations Is instantly meaningless, crass, common, nauseous and disgusting Her flowing prose was illegible on those lips. Sounding almost spat I could have silenced nine decades to my two and circled her in criticism She would never understand with her barely-English cold translations of her Own English mother-tongue. III People are fascinating Occassionally I find I look at them and linger, I study them and calculate their complex algebras Undoubtedly we are products of our parents and the less of us by-products We are strings and apples and figs The woman with her ghost-white face and dress. Her parents were too strict You can see it in her face, how if you even turn away her eyes circle with bags And she feels lost, she could cry a thousand summers and undoubtedly should trade my place. As of my own parents they probably loved me too much. Sheltered me and then Stopped abrupt as death and cyanide fizzing Suddenly trading my lineage into friendship and smiles and no, do silence yourselves I am a maypole and the strings circle about me Life and ambition they feed upon me, draining me in complex nervous disorder I am a living question mark I can feel it Eating below my skin.
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