Poetry and Other Forms of Procrastination

I've been pondering "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot. Until recently, I had never even heard of the poem, in school I studied "The Waste Land" of course, but didn't know much of Eliot beyond that. However, recently people around me have been quoting it, making allusions to it and the other week I read it for the first time.
The poem is beautiful and the language is mesmorizing, lulling even. But what does it mean? It is called a love song, but the main character is conspicuously alone, disconnected, indecisive. Not even the sirens, or mermaids as he says, call to him. They are luring someone else. My favorite verse:
"For I have known them all already, known them all
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room
So how should I presume?"

I think it may be one of those poems that everyone will take in a completely different direction depending on their own state of mind and experience. Still, it's beautiful and I have been thinking of it all afternoon.
Poetry used to be my passion. I wrote poems all the time, but suddenly stopped for some reason that is still a mystery to myself. Lately however, I've had a penchant for sonnets. (Stop the eye rolls- just because it reminds you of high school English class, sheesh). I've written quite a few in the past week. All of this creative energy should be poured into my NaNoWriMo, but as the title says, I've been procrastinating. A friend of mine asked me to describe my story to her and I reallized I do know what I want to happen and where I want to end up, I've just got to *Woman-Up* and do it.
I'll be back when I've hit 20,000 words.