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.
I have memories but none of my own whatever's on my inside is what is shown. If I'm ever different it's because you changed me I feel like a decoration here for you to arrange me.
I belong to you but others use me more often than you do. What am I?
I can be cracked, made, told, and played. What am I?
Golden treasure I contain guarded by hundreds and thousands. Stored in a labyrinth where no man walks Yet men come often to seize my gold. By smoke I am overcome and robbed then left to build my treasure anew.
What do you purposefully put lots of in and on your body, but run away from when you encounter it outside?