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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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.The survivors. Yes, that's what we call ourselves. We've lived through the terrors of life. Gentle hands, soft spoken, safe in his arms. Obey, and listen, and the swirling melody of love plays throughout the scene. And yet, this masquerade is always broken to reveal the truth. Words sharper than daggers explode around our ears. Bruises appear on our skin. We've "fallen", the clumsy females we are. We fell. A sports injury, a car crash, a freak accident. Freak accident of hatred. Much like the lion, quiet and stalking, and then exploding into a flurry of the hunt. Of the hurt. Swift blows, and blood drips from noses, tears stream from eyes in a silver river of desperate please, bruises decorate us in tawnys and majestic purples. Reminders of our "wrong doings". We need to pay for our sins. The only witness are the walls, and the moonbeams that dance about our dizzy heads. On the ground. Steel toes to the back. A crack. Fire. Pain. And then, a cool silence. The rage subsides, and apologies appear. "I'll never do it again" and "I lost control" replay in the back of our heads. Our deja- vu from the previous night. Always the same. Always the pain. The survivors. Thats what we call ourselves. And by the dark dance of the moon against the velvet sky, as stars twinkle like sequins, and fade into the dawn, we pick ourselves up. New excuses. New plates to buy. A new alarm clock. New knives, doors, but no new hearts, stabbed until the hemmoragging hurts like a firestorm. Alone. We are alone. We, the Survivors, have lived not an apocalypse, not a plane crash, but the darkest part of our lives. Therapy can lock it away, but never remove the dark stain of dried blood upon our souls. Lost. We come together, and escape. We start anew, but are never the same. Dark dreams, paranoia haunting our shadows, and the jumps that come with shattered glass of the clink of dishes. Never the same, but stronger. What doesn't kill you is sure to leave a horrible scar, but wounds heal And while scars remain as a reminder of the pain endured, we are, for the better, stronger. We survived. .

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Scars

.The survivors. Yes, that's what we call ourselves. We've lived through the terrors of life. Gentle hands, soft spoken, safe in his arms. Obey, and listen, and the swirling melody of love plays throughout the scene. And yet, this masquerade is always broken to reveal the truth. Words sharper than daggers explode around our ears. Bruises appear on our skin. We've "fallen", the clumsy females we are. We fell. A sports injury, a car crash, a freak accident. Freak accident of hatred. Much like the lion, quiet and stalking, and then exploding into a flurry of the hunt. Of the hurt. Swift blows, and blood drips from noses, tears stream from eyes in a silver river of desperate please, bruises decorate us in tawnys and majestic purples. Reminders of our "wrong doings". We need to pay for our sins. The only witness are the walls, and the moonbeams that dance about our dizzy heads. On the ground. Steel toes to the back. A crack. Fire. Pain. And then, a cool silence. The rage subsides, and apologies appear. "I'll never do it again" and "I lost control" replay in the back of our heads. Our deja- vu from the previous night. Always the same. Always the pain. The survivors. Thats what we call ourselves. And by the dark dance of the moon against the velvet sky, as stars twinkle like sequins, and fade into the dawn, we pick ourselves up. New excuses. New plates to buy. A new alarm clock. New knives, doors, but no new hearts, stabbed until the hemmoragging hurts like a firestorm. Alone. We are alone. We, the Survivors, have lived not an apocalypse, not a plane crash, but the darkest part of our lives. Therapy can lock it away, but never remove the dark stain of dried blood upon our souls. Lost. We come together, and escape. We start anew, but are never the same. Dark dreams, paranoia haunting our shadows, and the jumps that come with shattered glass of the clink of dishes. Never the same, but stronger. What doesn't kill you is sure to leave a horrible scar, but wounds heal And while scars remain as a reminder of the pain endured, we are, for the better, stronger. We survived. .