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 This the truth will always be – amity between Sam and Abdalla; finding Bigfoot, gathering the ocean’s blue; a perfect wedlock; Hollywood; Fox News; Joel Osteen. There is no place where freedom is not sacrificed for dreams, reality for sugared words, a black man to Limbaugh’s tongue – the brutal but softer tone of the Coliseum. Our dream is fractional happiness, a day with dark ending. Our light is a fast exodus to the open sepulchers, so far from youthful minds, but within walking distance of our bodies, breathless. Our fad is for the open eyes, our eyes, a minute to see. How fleeting are the seconds, and years. When the old Ampad man came to town, we went backward like a cult baptism, there was this smell that walked like stupid, along the Ohio River, the sound of tomorrow’s children crying the cries their parents left them. Smith was never pleased with Jesus’ work, so they took him to America, and execute the first 9\11, like Waco. We strip barks from the neutered trees, the rabid yelps in the Bushes. We’ve witnessed Barbara giving birth to Judas, an effort to fulfill the selling of the woman at sea. We were terrified, but God never let it be so; we will not go now, the sky will dressed in black to moan our pending death. We are dogs on a lease – I can’t believe the things the wind told my ears. Remember George, how we gave him Samantha, then request that the black man give her back to us, saying, let us take our Sammy from the cotton picker’s son; he’s blind; he cannot see Russia from his house, his name is a message from the camel people. How can he rest his graying head, against a pillow made with thorns? How can he sleep, with all that stupid ringing in his ears?
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