This is Guilliean Pacheco's creative portfolio, a curated collection of creative writing, photography, web & graphic design, as well as film projects & mixtapes. I am available for hire.

Bento Life

Bento Life

It’s a life of tiny shards, make it pretty.
Meat, rice, vegetables, fish, sugar, spice.
Everything and nothing is nice.
The culmination inside another wistful dream.
Compartmentalized for a fleeting moment.
Consumed like fire in a pit.
Corrugated cardboard container.
Sectioned off and in manageable pieces.
Been ready to walk the road for years.
Should have turned left at that last fork.
Coasting through the journey,
asking the wrong questions,
Getting the right answers.
Every ounce of me bleeds “no”
The volume on the radio is at eleven.
You can’t hear me anymore.
I can’t hear me anymore.
Lost in the maze of sharp corners,
Misspelled phrases, and flat tires.
Eat the orange smile, and slog through.
That’s all I can do.


Home is where the fences are cinder blocks,
radiating heat well into the night.
Home is where the shit on the street
is from ornamental plums,
and not migrating ducks and geese.
Home is knowing where the garlic salt is
in the kitchen.
Home is where your dog is.
Home is waking up to the sun everyday,
10 months out of the year.
Home is walking out to your car,
covered in a thin coat of dust.
Home is moving your joints,
and not hearing them crack,
because humidity.
Every day is a new day.
I have been craving this adventure.
I earned my stripes.
The ride is bumpy, and I’m wearing a helmet.
I got it good. For now.
But sometimes, when you’re feeling so far removed,
when you hear a noise that doesn’t sound right,
you want to be home.

Get Off My Lawn

The chanting chafes, birthing China in the confines of my skull.
Men, dressed in indiscriminate suits, roam the floor.
Big Brother is watching you.
Crinoline, tutus, flora, plastic bracelets,
signifying their need to belong to something
Greater than themselves.
To believe that the steps we make in life
Are worth the culture of melodic anonymity.
Youthful colours anticipate the bass,
pound out a privileged aggression
What is life but the next bottled spirit?
Tripping on legal and illegal pharmaceuticals
But I don’t judge.
Echoing screams, shake what your mama gave you
I rise above, beyond, below these definitions of society
This bootleg version of true electricity
Brings death and destruction wherever it goes.
Four horsemen will not usher in the apocalypse;
Three letters will.

Miracle & Magician


“I didn’t realize the weather would be quite this oppressive, darling,” the well-dressed lady said to the man beside her in the carriage. She waved a gloved hand in front of her face, trying to excite the dull air into breathable oxygen. “I think I left my fan in my trunk. Oh goodness, it’s positively unbearable.”

“Uncle Thomas did warn us in our last correspondence that we probably should’ve come sooner, but you are fully aware of the trouble I ran into securing our passage,” he reminded her, looking out the window at the wide open prairie. He smiled at her. “But that’s not what you’re worried about is it?”
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Undisclosed Desires


She instinctively reached out for him, her ranger. Behind her closed eyes, she realized he was not there. The room was dark but she could see the lights from the street below filling the room. The clock on the wall stated that it was 543a. Max – senior aged at this point but forever a puppy – snuffled in his sleep at the movement of his mistress. She whispered softly in the dark, “Herc?”
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Dem Hunger Pangz


Them hunger pangs. The ones that make you wish you could take flight.
To walk away from everything you have ever known.
Into another universe, to live, to thrive, to love.
It gets you deep in your gut, the first spark of a combustion engine.
It envelopes you like a gust of wind,
The synapses in your brain firing every second,
Urging you to keep moving.
Your feet are bleeding, willing you to move in the other direction, to fail.
But you cannot. You will not. The hunger pangs keep you going.
You’re not quite undead, but for all intents and purpose, this world is.
But you are not the world. You are fantastic.
Fight them all off and keep moving forward.
You are honor bound to finish this journey.
You gasp for air, to feel joy in the mundane, sing in moving vehicles.
Tomorrow is another day.

Songs About Paint Peeling and Other Jams


Four walls. Caught in a moment. I wonder where the time goes. 
Symphonies like rain, pound in my head, somewhere near the heart. 
I could sit in this yellow wallpapered room, and ponder some more. 
I am not going mad, but we don’t use that word, do we? 
You heard the snap. Clean break.
Muscles and sinews break through the other side. 
Blood and guts are spilling through the eye of the needle. 
I do not know how much more I can stand of this.
Lying to myself, lying to the world. 
Photographs of a world I used to live in. 
Paintings of an era I used to celebrate in. 
Memories cycle through like a film reel, 
if the temperature is too high, I will burn. 
Melt like Icarus, so close to that ball of burning gas and flame. 
Lay me bare like a festering wound. 
It’s green, so money, wow. 
Vestiges of humanity, seeping tears, hiding in plain sight.
The truth becomes the word, the word becomes mainstream.
Sometimes it’s Better to keep the word underground.
No one can take it from you.
But you can’t fake it if you do.
You can’t take it with you.
Up on this cut, the word makes you.
Deep in the wound, the truth shall set us free.