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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

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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Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks. The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links. Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion. On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain, nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation. Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer. Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering. Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks. Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate. Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining. Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive. His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer. How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain. If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks. Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links. He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate. Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate. He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion. He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link. How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer. The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks. Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain. He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained. He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate. After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks. Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion, He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers. Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking. The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking. Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain. Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer. If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate. The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion, they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.

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When Madness Rides On Moonlight

Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks. The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links. Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion. On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain, nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation. Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer. Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering. Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks. Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate. Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining. Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive. His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer. How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain. If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks. Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links. He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate. Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate. He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion. He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link. How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer. The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks. Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain. He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained. He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate. After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks. Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion, He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers. Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking. The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking. Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain. Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer. If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate. The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion, they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.