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 “Mommy,” I cry, desperate for kindness. I don’t like her; why did you leave me here? I’m tied with blue twine, both hands and feet, forced to sit on this fake wooden floor. She’s by the stove, iron frying pan heated up with the scent of roasted peanuts, or is it burning flesh… Heavy sobs escape my three-year old lips; I want gentle hugs, ones mommy or daddy would give after telling me stories of the ancients, the ones where mommy tightens her grip, smiling at her little miracle. I want those soft kisses on my forehead, the ones daddy would give when he sees me, regardless of tired eyes or happy glimmers. “Mommy,” I whimper, please, come and stop her. Those cold, merciless eyes like the ones Medusa has; just because she doesn’t turn people to stone doesn’t alleviate anything. She takes the pan off the stove and walks over to helpless me. Please, no, get her away, I’m begging, please- she deliberately jabs my left hand with the pan, my tender flesh turns a lovely shade of burnt, angry red, hot frying oil crackling like noisy firecrackers on Lunar New Year. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts! She pulls that cast-iron pan away, my skin pulsing with heat, agitated by the cool morning air. Painful tears flow down my matching crimson cheeks; mommy, why did you leave me here, why did you let her do this? Mommy, it hurts. I don’t want to be in this house, near this person, tortured like a slave about to be branded, or hear insults directed to me in a convoluted accent. Can you take me home early, please; I don’t want beatings from a flat, 18-inch, bamboo rod, to be locked in darkness, or to be rooted in this helpless predicament. Please- I’m pleading, praying, head bowed in hopeful agony- Mommy, don’t let her hurt me.
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