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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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What the ****, I'll break your neck if you get at me, tell me now, that I can't paint pictures, when I clearly see that old man, walking like a broken triangle making a vertex on the ground with his cane, his face looking like shit,It`s like you take a dodge ball, stab it, let it sit there for 93 years in mud and there you go, is it so nice to stare? Is it so nice to paint pictures when you're dying? And do you blame me? When I got on stage and lied to a bunch of people thinking I might have snapped if given the conditions, a twig under that same old man's cane, their eyes in my ****ed up paranoid self deprecating brain are tiringly insulting, could you write under trauma? could you write under shame, abuse?and when it surfaces from denial, it's the ****ing worst, my poems should be censored,these windows to the soul- do you see that barren atom landscape where the carcass folds under consistent bubbling fester fermentation,I'm under the fold of his sallow skin watching the trees burn, feuled by consumer propaganda GOD, I sleep with writers and steal their style, new contemporary AIDS- I lost my voice due to gingivitis, or was it due to years of being wrong: my parents taught me that- and the room where you sat I brooded breeded sin, you ****, so Dali Esque- you aren't competant enough to examine me, not a single person knows the way my rot, bloomed, into a shard of intricately blown glass, cutting down friends in self-deprecating loathing, oh how can you love him? look at his faults, just don`t look at mine, what a load of- no story, too consciously thrown around, and now it's lost in the disverse,lol,no unity,it`s too fat, I can`t handle it, who the **** breathes chaos, let it go, I`m choking, I see myself- IN YOUR WORK There are carefully placed rhymes, at times, and they make me feel alive, I feel like words should be categorized, and arranged in pretty little, lines, oh wow, he rhymed orange with porridge, I forgot of such a word, but when he stopped rhyming, GOD ****ing JESSSUS,IT'S ABSURD Silence as the madness bubbles down to a simmering sliver of excess extracted sediment, and I`m going to snort that *****and get high like all those times the family pretended to be OK and I ate a vanilla icecream with a smile on,as we watched a stupid movie in silence and the family room was never used,we preferred to watch t.v because we didn`t have to talk, and exchange BAGS OF GLASS as presents, here you go dad!

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What the ****, I'll break your neck if you get at me, tell me now, that I can't paint pictures, when I clearly see that old man, walking like a broken triangle making a vertex on the ground with his cane, his face looking like shit,It`s like you take a dodge ball, stab it, let it sit there for 93 years in mud and there you go, is it so nice to stare? Is it so nice to paint pictures when you're dying? And do you blame me? When I got on stage and lied to a bunch of people thinking I might have snapped if given the conditions, a twig under that same old man's cane, their eyes in my ****ed up paranoid self deprecating brain are tiringly insulting, could you write under trauma? could you write under shame, abuse?and when it surfaces from denial, it's the ****ing worst, my poems should be censored,these windows to the soul- do you see that barren atom landscape where the carcass folds under consistent bubbling fester fermentation,I'm under the fold of his sallow skin watching the trees burn, feuled by consumer propaganda GOD, I sleep with writers and steal their style, new contemporary AIDS- I lost my voice due to gingivitis, or was it due to years of being wrong: my parents taught me that- and the room where you sat I brooded breeded sin, you ****, so Dali Esque- you aren't competant enough to examine me, not a single person knows the way my rot, bloomed, into a shard of intricately blown glass, cutting down friends in self-deprecating loathing, oh how can you love him? look at his faults, just don`t look at mine, what a load of- no story, too consciously thrown around, and now it's lost in the disverse,lol,no unity,it`s too fat, I can`t handle it, who the **** breathes chaos, let it go, I`m choking, I see myself- IN YOUR WORK There are carefully placed rhymes, at times, and they make me feel alive, I feel like words should be categorized, and arranged in pretty little, lines, oh wow, he rhymed orange with porridge, I forgot of such a word, but when he stopped rhyming, GOD ****ing JESSSUS,IT'S ABSURD Silence as the madness bubbles down to a simmering sliver of excess extracted sediment, and I`m going to snort that *****and get high like all those times the family pretended to be OK and I ate a vanilla icecream with a smile on,as we watched a stupid movie in silence and the family room was never used,we preferred to watch t.v because we didn`t have to talk, and exchange BAGS OF GLASS as presents, here you go dad!