Motifs

Writers, and perhaps artists in general, enjoy motifs. I know do, and when viewing paintings, drawings, or reading the writings of various authors, I notice recurring tidbits cropping up throughout major works. More particular authors attempt to remove achingly obvious redundancies, but you'll still often see favored words, phrases, or thematic plot lines that are intrinsic to the author's artistic style.
For instance, Eoin Colfer always uses the phrase "drumming like a tattoo"; Stephen Donaldson loves the word "clenching"; Brandon Sanderson struggles writing a plot without deus ex machina as denoument. Some authors tend towards devices, like Brent Weeks turning a situation sour for the main character, and then circumstances worsen, and when you think you've hit the bottom, he drops the last few rungs on the ladder out from beneath you into a pitful of jaw-snapping alligators.
It's clearest, I think, with poets. Because of the brevity of poetic works, themes, words, and similarities emerge all the clearer, as each line, stanza, and verse stands alone in easy contrast to the poems on the following page.
I'm still lapping at the sides of the greatest of artistic lakes, but in my works, already I've seen the rise and fall of personal tendencies. When I began writing, I overused the word "dance" in much of my material. Now, I too frequently abuse a number of vague words (especially when writing ambiguous online entries) such as "sometimes", because I enjoy the wistful appeal of the word, despite it's dubious nature. I wave my hands and breeze past differing styles and traditions, trying to snatch a hold onto patterns of the past and present methods, but even in my "dancing" spontaneous approach to learning, imitation, and practice, I maintain a core set of mannerisms, the axiomatic principles of my artistic understanding. These, too, change, but slowly, meticulously, like the movements of the bottom of the ocean compared to the top.
The goal, I think, is to develop such a secure foundation that even brief examples of writing will possess something intrinsically fascinating. Like listening to Neil Gaiman speak, and being tossed in the currents of the mythos that rolls behind his words.

the trees form pink parades
cherryblossom leaves toss
their pompom hoorays into the spring
and flowers cup their hands like children
holding fireflies, or colorful surprises
or are they just praying? 
I'm near to knowing
the hearts of the trees
and wildflowers - a bracelet of daisies
dancing necklace of dandelions
psyche, I'm falling in love
and her hands are still closed