Sloppy

Time and time again I find myself
Writing one thought in a thousand ways;
Reaching back up onto some mental shelf
To seek the same sort of ecstatic praise
I've said before. Yet every time they are
Seemingly unique within my soul.
I must acknowledge they are never far
From each other; make a common whole
(My life and love); all touch my single heart.
Yet even with this commonality
I see the difference between each part
And mourn my unoriginality.
But every time I say it strangely, know
The heart of me is properly aglow.