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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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Look at my hands. Pristine at first glance but look a little longer. The pointer and middle on the right hand. The yellow hue comes from an addictive personality. Pan down to see a child in that line of white. She woke up crying because her hands were bloody. The wrinkles that stretch and close as they drape over my knuckles. My dad would say my blood was made of sugar, his evidence was the white dots that litter my skin. I’ve been asked why my nails are so long. A long nail elongates the fingers. If you are visualizing the nails of Rita Hayworth or the likes, think more along the lines of Corpse’s Bride with skin. On the left, the gray polish is always chipped. The most active of the fingers. Where one would usually have wrinkles between the joints, on the middle one the skin is perfectly smooth, the cause being sexual tension and a cigarette. On the side of the same finger, hugging the nail, a wound from a seventeen year old who shouldn’t be trusted with sharp things. The protruding, mechanical nature of the bones that ebb and flow as they breathe with broken movement. The breath is felt in all but one finger embedded with glass from bad decisions during communal living. It left with with a little bit less feeling and a little bit more character. The most beautiful thing about me is the one most harmed.

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Look at my hands. Pristine at first glance but look a little longer. The pointer and middle on the right hand. The yellow hue comes from an addictive personality. Pan down to see a child in that line of white. She woke up crying because her hands were bloody. The wrinkles that stretch and close as they drape over my knuckles. My dad would say my blood was made of sugar, his evidence was the white dots that litter my skin. I’ve been asked why my nails are so long. A long nail elongates the fingers. If you are visualizing the nails of Rita Hayworth or the likes, think more along the lines of Corpse’s Bride with skin. On the left, the gray polish is always chipped. The most active of the fingers. Where one would usually have wrinkles between the joints, on the middle one the skin is perfectly smooth, the cause being sexual tension and a cigarette. On the side of the same finger, hugging the nail, a wound from a seventeen year old who shouldn’t be trusted with sharp things. The protruding, mechanical nature of the bones that ebb and flow as they breathe with broken movement. The breath is felt in all but one finger embedded with glass from bad decisions during communal living. It left with with a little bit less feeling and a little bit more character. The most beautiful thing about me is the one most harmed.