Answer:
I have a name written on me, but it isnβt my name. Men plant me, but I never grow. They look at me and see their future, rotting in my bloom.
Break me but Iβll continue to work touch me and maybe Iβll stay with you forever.
So simple, that I can only point. Yet I guide men all over the world.
I am black and white and full of fuzz
I will disappear every time you say my name. What am I?
What do you purposefully put lots of in and on your body, but run away from when you encounter it outside?