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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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At the corner of the room, where only kerosene lamp’s light glows, head slightly bent over the ancient narra table, a man, divorced, sits in solitude, in front of him his grandpa’s gold pen and a block note--- of winter hues. And, in the aroma of a beautiful life, he, too, believes without doubt he could have written it, his own life, with great love and glamour when he had the chance. Surely, he sees his ala M. Twain’s beard silver-grayed and touches it, for awhile. Yet for him, it seems he was not that old, he feels the strength, of handsome Adonis---the youth, like the olden years, rhyming fast in a fleeting time of his last days. He thinks of himself, how his alter ego hurt him in many ways, not abiding in his own older blood, who once chided him and said: “Oh believe me, my son, you can not write your life of today tomorrow, you better start now!” The time lost, smiling back at him, in mirthful caution that makes him not to dawdle over star wars---vodka with coke, his favorite drink, as he consumes the scented roll, puffing, the fumes---in delicate rings, whilst his eyes glued, at his one line-sentence, penned in small letters: a fictitious poet. Alas, too many unforgiving wives calling get him drunk; he, soon, falls asleep, his face leaning on the narra table. Smoke, gone.

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A Fictitious Poet

At the corner of the room, where only kerosene lamp’s light glows, head slightly bent over the ancient narra table, a man, divorced, sits in solitude, in front of him his grandpa’s gold pen and a block note--- of winter hues. And, in the aroma of a beautiful life, he, too, believes without doubt he could have written it, his own life, with great love and glamour when he had the chance. Surely, he sees his ala M. Twain’s beard silver-grayed and touches it, for awhile. Yet for him, it seems he was not that old, he feels the strength, of handsome Adonis---the youth, like the olden years, rhyming fast in a fleeting time of his last days. He thinks of himself, how his alter ego hurt him in many ways, not abiding in his own older blood, who once chided him and said: “Oh believe me, my son, you can not write your life of today tomorrow, you better start now!” The time lost, smiling back at him, in mirthful caution that makes him not to dawdle over star wars---vodka with coke, his favorite drink, as he consumes the scented roll, puffing, the fumes---in delicate rings, whilst his eyes glued, at his one line-sentence, penned in small letters: a fictitious poet. Alas, too many unforgiving wives calling get him drunk; he, soon, falls asleep, his face leaning on the narra table. Smoke, gone.