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 There is a sudden crowd inside the ribs, a heavy shifting of weight, like old furniture dragging across a hardwood floor. It is the nervous, rhythmic friction of a thumb tracing the rough seam of your jeans, over and over, trying to anchor a body that feels too light. You stand bare under a noon sun with nowhere to tuck your hands, the throat closing up like a dry pipe around words that refuse to be smooth. It tastes like the bitter, metallic burn of morning coffee scalded against the top of your tongue, the physical evidence of rushing into the day. Then the floor drops away, that sudden, terrifying lurch in the gut when your foot encounters only empty air on a dark staircase you thought you knew by heart. The silence follows, heavy as a wet wool coat, settling into the quiet hallway upstairs where the floorboards stop creaking, and you realize the house has gone entirely still. But the lungs remember how to expand. A laugh breaks out, unrehearsed, ugly, and loud, the kind that jolts the shoulders and leaves you blinking at the sudden light. It is the cold, sharp shock of air filling the chest right after the crying stops, tasting faintly of ozone and salt. We are of a fragile, clumsy construction. We bruise against the corners of tables; we stitch ourselves back up with mismatched thread. To be alive is just to leave the front door unlatched, inviting the weather to wreck the kitchen, and standing there in the debris— bruised, exposed, and entirely glad to have felt the storm.
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