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 We poets have a coven where we write our sins. Bewitched by the entirety and stringing words in beautiful threads of our own possibilities and what-ifs of the future, we fret, singularly, on a piece of paper. We hide our words between another few words that make everything seem hollow when in reality we are mellow and broken by the ghosts of our past. And the blurry waves of hope pass by our shore so we hang a little tight, even when everything gets hazed. We slip through cracks of our own imagination when the 'light at the end of the tunnel' is only an idea for the fools, we know the truth. There was never a light we broke the walls ourselves. We love a soul and trade ours for theirs. The pages of our deepest fears are stuck with the ink made from our blood and tears. As ghastly as it sounds, it becomes our reality. Whether on paper, on a Microsoft Word file, or in the secret of Notes app- a writer always bleeds. A poet with no one to pay heed, to their words. Only understood my the gravest hearts. A single piece of parchment hidden beneath the deepest corners, lurking in the shadows of our broken bones and hurt that burnt us whole. Breathing is a sin to a tainted soul. Will it ever be okay?.. How would we know? So we form a coven where we write our worsts- the transcripts and the manuscripts sealed shut, only to be opened by fools who know what's what. The poet in me has run out of blood My veins are dry and full of dust, from my ashes The weight of this stone-hearted world crushes my soul Like an inch to death, the flowers don't have a root There isn't a home, for my words and my wars I wait restlessly For fate, to do its magic In reality.
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