Home » Poems » Poetry Art » Poetry Art / Greeting Card Maker

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.

Text
Layout
Background

Enter Title (Not Required)

Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required
the lunchbox moment. I can feel the looks of disgust as I make my way to the table, I sit down, others stand up, walk away. kids grimace at the meal I’ve placed in front of myself, “ew” and “what is that?” fly across the table into my ears. I try to explain, but only assumptions are acceptable as they switch their tables, away from me. the labels we have in our classroom. we all have the same name here, those in the skin of privilege think we are one, the same, nothing but another Chinese kid. teachers with saccharine smiles plastered on their faces call on my raised hand in class. a name, that is not mine, empties out of their mouth. after 14 years here, I’ve learned, there is no point in correcting them. the Chinese New Year festival. second grade starts. a new name, belonging to another Asian kid, is assigned to me. they don’t know who I am, but I don’t care. I let myself fade away, shrinking into my surroundings. kids gather in the hall in “traditional Chinese clothing,” sticking chopsticks in their hair, stretching their eyes into slits, yelling gibberish at me as I pass, thinking that they are speaking “my” language. teachers ask me to do their job, to teach their students about “my home,” “my home” on the other side of the world, a home I’ve never seen. the country I am from. born American, yet still a foreigner. the words of my classmates, teachers, fellow citizens, echo constantly in my mind. “go back to your country” “your English is very good” “where were you born?” “where are you really from?” because no matter what, in their eyes, I am not, and never will be, American. the future we look to. isolation has become our routine, a cycle of exclusion, we turn and spin around in, we are given no choice but to fight back in a world where we are looked at, and without hesitation, labeled: “perpetual foreigner.” we can no longer allow ourselves to be stripped of our identities, until we are nothing more than yellow-skinned wallflowers. together, we can take the ignorance that tries to demolish our individuality, and use it to reinforce resilience. the words you choose. your privilege bestows you the choice to learn about racism. we are not your teachable moments. do not look to us as spokespeople for a land you think we’re from. we are not less American because of our appearance, do not hyphenate, separate, divide us. we are just as American as you.

Enter Author Name (Not Required)

Move Text:

Heading Text

Color:

Main/Poem Text

Color:

Layout: TallShort

www.poetrysoup.com - Create a card from your words, quote, or poetry

That is Not My Name

the lunchbox moment. I can feel the looks of disgust as I make my way to the table, I sit down, others stand up, walk away. kids grimace at the meal I’ve placed in front of myself, “ew” and “what is that?” fly across the table into my ears. I try to explain, but only assumptions are acceptable as they switch their tables, away from me. the labels we have in our classroom. we all have the same name here, those in the skin of privilege think we are one, the same, nothing but another Chinese kid. teachers with saccharine smiles plastered on their faces call on my raised hand in class. a name, that is not mine, empties out of their mouth. after 14 years here, I’ve learned, there is no point in correcting them. the Chinese New Year festival. second grade starts. a new name, belonging to another Asian kid, is assigned to me. they don’t know who I am, but I don’t care. I let myself fade away, shrinking into my surroundings. kids gather in the hall in “traditional Chinese clothing,” sticking chopsticks in their hair, stretching their eyes into slits, yelling gibberish at me as I pass, thinking that they are speaking “my” language. teachers ask me to do their job, to teach their students about “my home,” “my home” on the other side of the world, a home I’ve never seen. the country I am from. born American, yet still a foreigner. the words of my classmates, teachers, fellow citizens, echo constantly in my mind. “go back to your country” “your English is very good” “where were you born?” “where are you really from?” because no matter what, in their eyes, I am not, and never will be, American. the future we look to. isolation has become our routine, a cycle of exclusion, we turn and spin around in, we are given no choice but to fight back in a world where we are looked at, and without hesitation, labeled: “perpetual foreigner.” we can no longer allow ourselves to be stripped of our identities, until we are nothing more than yellow-skinned wallflowers. together, we can take the ignorance that tries to demolish our individuality, and use it to reinforce resilience. the words you choose. your privilege bestows you the choice to learn about racism. we are not your teachable moments. do not look to us as spokespeople for a land you think we’re from. we are not less American because of our appearance, do not hyphenate, separate, divide us. we are just as American as you.